


walls of stone

by ragball



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Blindfolds, Dysfunctional Family, Everything is terrible, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Artistry, Guilt, Lies and Deceit, Lots of Cursing, Lots of OC Action, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Off-screen drama, Overthinking, Past Abuse, Pining, Slow Build, Sunglasses, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, asshole protagonist, creepy people, kids being stupid, porn AU (sort of), real name abuse, strangers to friends to lovers? kind of, unbelievably slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 45
Words: 178,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8632498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragball/pseuds/ragball
Summary: After moving to Tokyo with his parents, Takanori had grown bitter. Once ambitious and artistic, he now spent his days wasting away in front of a computer screen or working a mindless job, living a dull and lonely existence. He wanted out, but with no motivation or means to really do so, he found himself stuck, trapped in a cycle of endlessly boring routine. His only real comfort was the occasional movie night spent with a friend that was otherwise always busy.
... but then there was him, the man in the sunglasses.
A long story about obscure porn and friendship, love, guilt and possibly revenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags/warnings are for the overall story.
> 
> Please note that this story is very long, and goes into some deeply unpleasant places. If you find yourself triggered by the kind of subject matter listed in the warnings, _don't_ read this fic. Run away as far as you can because it is going to get very, very dark, and if you are sensitive to this type of content, reading this fic – even just the first few chapters – will likely not be worth it. 
> 
> A few things I should mention:
> 
> I) This is my first fic! Also, English is not my native language, and I have no beta reader, so if there are any typos or such, please tell me.  
> II) This is going to be very long. Hopefully you're in for the long haul, because it's gonna take a while before the actual plot starts kicking in. On that note:  
> III) For all the faffing about, there is a plot.  
> III) I will do my very, very best to finish this story. I try to update once a week, but if I don't, it should be twice a month or so. Once a month, if I'm especially out of it. Any less than that, and feel free to yell at me.

“Hey, Matsumoto, he’s here again.”

“Who?” Takanori said, shaking Ishida’s hand off where his co-worker had grabbed for his arm.

“Who do you think? Sunglasses. See for yourself.”

Following Ishida’s pointing finger towards the large store windows, he spotted the man leisurely walking through the park across the road, heading towards a nearby bench.

“Oh. Whatever,” he said dismissively, turning to leave. “I’m off.”

He heard Ishida snorting, amused. “Sure,” but Takanori didn’t care to listen. Ishida rarely had anything interesting to say, anyway. But lately he had grown a strange obsession with a young man, referred to as ‘sunglasses guy’ by Ishida, and ‘that fucking weirdo’ by everyone else who noticed him.

Every couple days, Takanori would see him; sometimes because Ishida couldn’t shut up about it, and sometimes because he noticed himself. In all honesty, the guy was hard to miss — he certainly stood out in a crowd, which was obvious, seeing as he was rather tall, but it wasn’t just that. His hair was long and golden, clearly dyed. He would always go to the park by the shop, sit down on that same bench, and lean his head back for a few minutes, before he’d get up and walk away. Always with his face partially obscured behind dark lenses.

It wasn’t like there was anything particularly interesting about any of that. But what Takanori couldn’t figure out, was why the guy always wore those sunglasses. It didn’t seem to be to protect his eyes from the sunlight, because it didn’t matter whether it was sunny or not — it could be raining, and he’d still be wearing them. Takanori knew that. He’d seen him enough times on rainy days to know that the guy never took them off, with nothing but a transparent umbrella protecting him from getting soaked.

Today was no different. It was overcast, and although it was warm, the sun was hidden behind thick clouds. The guy was just sitting there, as usual, legs crossed and arms stretched out, head tilted back, the ever-present sunglasses preventing Takanori from seeing if his eyes were closed or not.

He usually imagined they would be.

Navigating the narrow, product-lined shelves, Takanori disappeared into the door marked as employees only, making his way to the line of lockers at the end of the room. Grimacing, he tossed his apron into his locker, grabbing his neatly hung up black leather jacket and shrugging it on. The design of the damn apron was so brightly coloured and cheerful it gave him a headache just looking at it. What a fucking joke. Here was as dull and grey a place as any other, and everyone working in the godforsaken shop knew it. Those who didn’t were merely fooling themselves. He couldn’t wait to get out of there, even if he had to return within the hour once his lunch break was over.

Maybe the guy with the sunglasses was still there on the bench, Takanori wondered as he fixed the mess his hair had become, leaving the store with his bag slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t something he’d ever have thought if it wasn’t for Ishida and his fucking obsession with calling attention to the guy every time he saw him. But it wasn’t quite the same today. He’d arrived just as Takanori’s lunch break had just started, when usually he’d arrive at the park when Takanori was busy working. Perhaps this time, Takanori thought, he could get a better look at the man, maybe figure out why he kept coming back, and what the whole sunglasses deal was all about.

He stopped himself. _Why does it matter? The guy probably just wants to be left alone._

Frowning, Takanori wondered when Ishida’s creepiness had begun to spread over to him.

But it wasn’t like it really mattered anyway, because when Takanori rounded the corner, the guy wasn’t there. The bench was empty, and no tall blond stranger in sunglasses in sight. So much for the possibility of making today somewhat interesting.

 

Fridays were universally considered good days. It was the end of the week, and for the majority of the population, it was the last day of work, marking the beginning of the weekend. As such, Takanori relished Fridays, at least once he was finished working, finally being able to throw the garish apron away into the locker and just not think about any of it for at least few days.

Incidentally, Friday was also the only day of the week when Ishida clocked out at the same time as Takanori did. It didn’t help matters much that he had a seemingly endless patience for Takanori’s usual moodiness, and didn’t feel the need to get home immediately, choosing instead to walk with him for a while. 

Takanori tolerated it, because Ishida also appeared to have some kind of keen understanding of how well and truly _bored_ Takanori really was. Not that he would ever admit it, but Takanori did enjoy the company to some degree. Even though Ishida was a fucking weirdo most of the time, in more ways than one — after all, there weren’t many ways to describe the kinds of things Ishida would email him every weekend, other than _deviant_ and occasionally _illegal_.

God, Takanori needed more people in his life.

This Friday was no exception. As usual, Ishida saw fit to join him on the short train ride home, all the while talking about seemingly whatever came to his mind. And if there was one thing that Takanori had come to know, it was that Ishida was a chatterbox when nobody told him to shut up. Even so Takanori had grown not to mind the incessant talking, so long as it kept out of creep territory, though he knew exactly where the conversation was heading. 

But then it didn’t exactly take a genius.

“— and my sister, she wears glasses, but she also drives a lot, so she got these expensive sunglasses recently, they’re prescription and everything so she can actually see where she’s driving. But they're so expensive! I'd have to work three months straight without buying anything to be able to afford something like that! Can you just imagine that, spending that huge sum of money on a pair of sunglasses?”

Takanori chuckled dryly. “If they’re prescription, and you need them, then yes. You forget I wear glasses too, Ishida.”

“Yeah, but you wear contact lenses everywhere so it’s not like anyone ever notices. I wonder what brand sunglasses guy uses…”

“Of course you do.” And there it was. Lately, it seemed that no matter what he initially was going on about, Ishida’s vocal train of thought would eventually derail and end up at Sunglasses Guy Station. Takanori’s curiosity was piqued about the whole thing, though he found the situation more amusing — and slightly creepy — than anything. For the first weeks, at least. But it had been a few months, and it was starting to get old by now, and so he said, “Hey, why does he even wear them?”

The look he got in return was nothing short of incredulous. “What, sunglasses guy? Why he wears sunglasses? You don’t know?” Ishida said, dismayed, and Takanori raised an eyebrow. 

“Not everyone possesses the brain that you do, Ishida.”

Ishida was making some rather embarrassing sounds in his disbelief. “The guy’s _blind_ , Matsumoto, how didn’t you notice?”

There was an angle he had failed to consider altogether. “But he doesn’t have a cane or a dog or anything,” he muttered defensively. “Why are you so fixated on the blind guy, anyway?”

“Not every blind person uses them. As for why I find him so interesting, well…” a sly grin spread across Ishida’s face, and Takanori just knew that Ishida had been itching for the moment he would ask. “Let’s just say that I have some _very interesting_ things to show you this weekend...”

That answer was entirely unsurprising to Takanori, and he rolled his eyes, thankful that there weren’t many people around to listen in on the two of them. “It’s not like anything I could possibly say would stop you, so sure. Just make sure that you don’t give me something that’ll put me in jail. _Please_.”

“Hey, hey, hey, that’s just mean! You know that I didn’t mean to send you that link—”

“Whatever you say, Ishida.”

“But I swear, it’s really high quality this time, tastefully shot and everything. Perfect for artsy types like you. You won’t regret watching it.”

Merely humming in response, Takanori grabbed for his bag, seeing as his stop was closing in. “Sure, I’ll watch it. Just don’t expect me to praise this… whatever-the-fuck-it-is,” he said. As Ishida was making no move to get up and off the train anytime soon, he assumed that was it for this Friday’s conversation between them. “I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t stick around to catch Ishida’s answer, stepping out the train doors the moment they opened enough to allow him through.

 

A new email appeared in his inbox that evening, and though he wasn’t sure what it was going to be this time, Takanori had his suspicions. Ishida _had_ sent him a frightening quantity of porn in the few months since they’d exchanged emails. Or since Ishida looked up Takanori’s email address at work, rather. He wasn’t sure why Ishida insisted to make Takanori his new best friend, but he wasn’t willing to cause a scene at his job, so he just rolled with it. 

He _did_ wish that Ishida would keep out of his private life, though.

Opening the mail, Takanori was faced with a link, a set of instructions to open it, and a message from Ishida.

He frowned at the sight of it. _The dark web again, huh?_ So it was probably illegal. Uncertain of what to expect, Takanori followed the instructions anyway, doing as he was told to get to the site, and found himself staring at an entirely black page, a video placed in the dead center. A video featuring Sunglasses, and porn, probably. _So he’s a porn star_ , Takanori mused. That would certainly explain Ishida’s obsession with the sunglasses guy. He wasn’t surprised that it was the case, though he was curious to see what, out of the myriad of other porn Takanori had been shown, made him so special. And so, after a brief moment to lock his door in the unlikely event that his parents would come knocking, he pressed play, plugging the headset in as he leaned back in his chair.

For a few moments, nothing happened, the video remaining all-black, and then the sound of a soft, masculine voice cut through the silence, “Where are we going?”

There was no answer. Then, out of the shadows stepped a man. He was tall and of large build, plainly dressed. The shot never showed his face, nor did it linger, cutting away — the man again, his back turned to the camera and elbow hooked around the arm of someone else.

The man spoke, his voice thick with computer-generated distortion, “We’re here.” And then he was out of frame, camera panning up to show the second person. A young man, by the looks of it, though Takanori could only see his back; pale, almost white skin, a tank top leaving his slender arms bare, his hair long and dark. Then he turned his head, following the direction of the sound of a door opening, light spilling into the frame, lighting up his hair and face as his profile came into view.

Takanori felt his jaw go slightly slack at the sight. It was him, the man with the sunglasses, the man he’d only observed at a distance, a few moments at a time, never with any real interest. But now, even in the dim lighting of the scene, Takanori could see that the man was _beautiful_ ; a strong jaw, for his soft features, high cheekbones, plush lips, an elegant nose—

and a blindfold covering the eyes. 

Takanori didn’t get a closer look at the man, as a moment later he walked out of the shot. He heard the sound of the door shutting closed, before the screen went black again but for two words:

_Blind boy_.

Turns out Ishida wasn’t lying, it really was well made. Whoever had been in charge of this video was clearly an artist, not just another porn director. Takanori watched, for once genuinely interested, as the two men entered a dimly lit room containing nothing but a large bed. Gay porn, then. Although Ishida had sent him some before, it had definitely been in the minority of what he had been shown. Judging by the blindfolded man’s appearance alone, he could definitely see why Ishida would want to share this, though.

The blindfolded man — the guy aptly named ‘blind boy’ — sat down on the edge of the bed, spread his legs, placing his hands on the mattress between them. The larger of the two then reappeared, his clothes having been removed, his entire face now concealed behind a featureless mask.

The video wasn’t all that long. Takanori wasn’t sure whether he was more fascinated than turned on, watching the two bodies on the bed, the masked man slowly stripping the blindfolded one of his clothes. The blind man wasn’t doing much, being rather passively moved around as his partner pleased, but he was so beautiful to watch that Takanori barely noticed. 

Things sped up from there, the masked man binding the blind man’s wrists together before chaining him to the bedpost. Even when the actual fucking started, it was still strangely intriguing to watch — rather than the usual awkward porn angles Takanori had come to expect, it was just the two of them, and somehow it didn’t matter that Takanori could barely see any of the actual action. It was less a pornographic video and more some sort of erotic art film. If that was the intention, he could certainly appreciate it.

The camera focused on the smaller of the two as he was used and toyed with for the other’s pleasure, releasing small moans, leaning into his partner’s touches and wrapping his long legs around the other’s hips. And though Takanori couldn’t quite shake the small clenching feeling in his gut trying to convince him that it was _wrong_ somehow, that Ishida was involving him in something he should stay as far away from as possible, he was quick to swallow those thoughts when the masked man propped one long leg up and onto a shoulder, and the blind boy arched his back perfectly, throwing his head back with something that almost sounded like a wail.

At that moment, Takanori hurriedly paused the video, because that right there, that was _art_. He wasn’t entirely sure exactly why, but he had the sudden urge to take what was on the screen and get it down on paper.

It was strange. He hadn’t had that feeling, that rush of motivation, of _inspiration_ , in ages. Not since before the move. Sending a quick glance across his room, Takanori’s eyes lingered momentarily on the taped up box collecting dust in a corner — too far away, and too much effort, he decided, getting to his feet, ignoring his unattended erection, because there would always be time for that later.

Hurrying over to his nightstand, he pulled out a drawer he had used primarily to stuff random junk he didn’t use into, digging through it, looking for something he could use — _come on_ , Takanori thought, _I know I left it here somewhere_ — before hitting jackpot and pulling a sketchbook from the pile. He had done a couple drawings on the first few pages, then abandoned it. Takanori hadn’t felt the need nor want to do any art in ages, after all, and thus the sketchbook had remained mostly unused. 

Finding his discarded pencil case, he grabbed it and went back to his laptop, opening the book, then closing it again and reopening it on the last page. Looking up at the screen again, Takanori let his eyes study the image displayed, a pencil gripped steadily in his hand, and he got to work.

He drew them. It had been so long since last Takanori had taken his time to draw anything, and he knew he was getting rusty, as much was evident the sloppiness of his lines, but it didn’t matter because he was _drawing_ again and he hadn’t felt this free in months, maybe years. He poured details into the paper, letting his focus be blind boy. The masked man was hardly important, his large and bulky figure uninteresting in all the ways the other was not.

And fuck, how Takanori had missed this. He could see so much more in this way, when he was studying their bodies, tracing their shapes with his eyes to get them down on paper. This wasn’t simply _porn_. It was something beautiful and unique that he couldn’t explain, and he wasn’t sure why.

And he hadn’t even watched it all yet.

When Takanori did consider himself finished with the drawing, an hour had already passed, and he put the book away and pressed play again to watch the last few minutes of the video. He looked on, almost entranced, at the ways the blind boy moved, the way his spine would curve into a near-perfect arc… from that alone, Takanori had to stop himself from pressing pause a second time.

When the two did finish, the masked man got off the bed and disappeared out of sight, leaving the other lying there, wrists now freed from the chains, wearing nothing but the blindfold, his back to the camera.

Blind boy — fitting name really, he didn’t look like much more than a kid — turned his head, parted his lips, and Takanori clenched his jaw, fists tight in his lap. The masked man came back, now dressed, though the mask was still in place. He went to the boy on the bed, turning him over to lie on his back, then straddled him. He started to pull at the blindfold, even as he received a soft whine in protest — it was torn off, then fell to the floor, and it was all Takanori could see. The video did not show the blind boy’s eyes, didn’t even show his face, just lingered there, at the blindfold, before the screen went black again and the video ended.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Disappointed, sure, but more than that he was curious — and intrigued, fascinated, turned on, certainly — and wondering how Ishida had managed to find this. The video likely had shady origins, judging by the fact that he had to go to the dark web just to watch it. But one thing Takanori _was_ certain of; he needed more.

_And exactly how are you going to find it, Takanori?_ a bitter voice in the back of his head asked, _Are you going to stoop to Ishida’s level and ask for more, or will you look for it on your own? Maybe go to the blind man himself and ask? Why not persuade him into your bed while you’re at it?_

Takanori knew he was too proud to admit to Ishida that he genuinely liked it, but at the same time… he wanted to see more. Though that could wait, at least for now, he decided, as he grabbed for his sketchbook once more. For now, he had a lot of fresh material to draw, and he was intending to make the most of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn ahead! it'll calm down after this, I promise.

The grin spreading across Ishida’s face was making Takanori more and more uncomfortable by the second. The question was coming, and it was entirely expected. He had just wished that it could wait until later. Hopefully till next Friday. And not when they were both supposed to be _working_. 

“I can see it on you.”

Takanori huffed, fixing his dark hair so it properly covered his right ear. At least they were alone in the stockroom, with no one to see or hear them. “Listen, Ishida—”

“See? I knew you’d love it! That was my first video too, it’s not that explicit, but—”

“ _Ishida_ , you need to shut up about this when we’re at work.”

Thankfully, Ishida went quiet to let him talk.

“Look... it wasn’t what I thought it would be, but…” He sighed, not sure what or how much to say. “Just, where the fuck did you find this shit?”

The grin resurfaced on Ishida’s face, and he opened his gangly arms in what would probably have been a mocking gesture, had he been a more sensible person. “The internet, of course!”

“Yeah, the dark web, you mean? That doesn’t really answer my question—” Takanori cut himself off, lowering his voice just in case. “That’s beside the point, actually. We can’t talk about this here. _Please_. Save it for when we’re off the clock.”

The sight of Ishida pouting was one he never had wanted to see. “But Matsumoto, we only have Fridays off together!”

“Then stick to mailing me.”

Ishida opened his mouth to say something, before he stopped himself, the sulking expression seeming to melt away from his face before giving way to something else entirely. It was realization, and he smirked coyly, like he knew something that Takanori didn’t. “Want more?”

“Going outside now, Ishida.”

“I can send you more, if you just ask, in fact— I know just the video, I swear it’s a really good one, way more interesting, at least to me—”

“ _Opening the door now, Ishida_.”

“I— right.”

Ishida thankfully took the hint as he left the stockroom, and Takanori was left to work in peace, spending the majority of his day stacking inventory and tidying shelves. For once, his mind wasn’t just droning away into the mindlessness of work, work, work. It was elsewhere, thinking back to the video; to blind boy, the sunglasses guy, to the two sketchpads waiting for him in his bag, one with blank pages bought just this morning should he get creative at some point during the day, the other filled with drawings he had made over the weekend.

He couldn’t wait to get out, get home, and _draw_. To rewatch the video, study each frame and carefully sketch them down. It was so odd to him now, feeling actual excitement for something that wasn’t just getting out of the shithole that was his workplace, but it was so good. Even if Takanori had to slave away for a few hours more, go home, tell his parents _I’m fine, the day was fine, I worked diligently all day, made my boss proud yadda yadda_ before escaping to his room (because that was how his life had been for the past _way too uncomfortably long_ ).

But today would be different. He would no longer be wasting away the rest of the day wishing his life had taken a more exciting turn than none at all. He would no longer be staring longingly at the dusty box of art supplies in the corner and hoping that one day he would want to touch it ever again. Now he would actually _do_ it.

“Gee, Matsumoto, what are you grinning about?”

The sudden sound of a voice next to him pulled Takanori out of his thoughts, and he turned to see a coworker — Fujita or something, he couldn’t really remember her name — and his face fell, slightly annoyed and a little embarrassed by having been caught off guard. But there _had_ been a grin on his face. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“What?”

She looked smug, a cocky curve to her thin lips. “You looked like you were daydreaming about something real nice.” Takanori was about to think up some snarky response, but before he could get a chance to deliver it she looked away, eyes moving to somewhere behind him, smirk turned to a disapproving frown. “Speaking of daydreaming…”

Following her gaze, he saw Ishida who had stopped in the middle of arranging produce in order to stare intently out the windows. Which could only mean one thing. Sunglasses guy was here again. Blind boy was right outside. Somehow, even with all he had... occupied himself with that weekend, Takanori hadn’t considered the possibility of seeing him again soon. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was so obvious, too, he usually came by on Mondays. How had Takanori been so stupid?

“Oh,” what all he could say, dumbfounded.

Either she didn’t notice, or she just didn’t care. “I will never understand what is wrong with that guy,” maybe-Fujita said, and it took Takanori a second to realize that she was referring to Ishida and not blind boy. 

“Me neither,” Takanori muttered, but she didn’t seem to care about what he had to say, because then she shrugged, the smug look back on her face, and she disappeared saying she had to get back to work before someone caught her slacking off. 

Slacking off, like Ishida. Or himself, maybe.

Ishida was looking at him now, too, gesturing as subtly as he could manage for Takanori to come over. Maybe he would have even succeeded, if not for the bag of carrots that he had somehow managed to forget he was still holding onto. And it was so incredibly stupid, Takanori knew, but he joined Ishida anyway, just in time to see sunglasses guy, blind boy (what the fuck was he even supposed to call him anymore?) sauntering through the park like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And it was so startling to watch, because nothing had changed. Sunglasses were perched on his face, his jacket slipping down his arm and baring a shoulder, the sunlight seemingly making his hair glow... it was just… the same. But it was _different_ now, with his recently broadened perspective of things, and there was an itching want in Takanori’s hands to find his sketchbook and get drawing. He had been so engulfed in the video that he hadn’t even thought about drawing this particular scene, mundane as it may be. 

Sunglasses guy seated himself on the bench, and Ishida said breathily, “I’m glad you finally understand.”

Not wanting to think about what that was supposed to imply, Takanori took the carrots out of Ishida’s hands, stuffing them into the shelf of neatly lined vegetables where they belonged. “Get back to work,” he said curtly. Because there was a time and place for everything, and a convenience store in the middle of the day was no place to be staring at porn stars.

Even if he _really_ wanted to.

 

That evening, another email appeared in his inbox, but this one was different. Instead of a link and instructions on how to access it, Ishida had settled for simply uploading and sending the video. He had told him something about _exclusive stuff_ before Takanori’d left work, so he assumed it was actually paid for this time. By Ishida himself, probably. So him watching this probably wasn’t legal either, Takanori found himself thinking, but it was leagues better than having to go to the dark web.

The video had no coherent title, the file name a cluster of letters and numbers that probably was intended for organization, but held no meaning to him. Staring at the thumbnail, Takanori tried to make out what he was seeing; a rather grainy image, to be sure. Long, flesh-toned forms placed next to each other, the shadows between them dark, a stark contrast to what he guessed were pale limbs. 

Ishida _did_ say this one would be more explicit, so it was probably porn in a more traditional sense, but considering what the first video had been... Takanori hummed, unsure whether to watch it right away, not knowing what to expect. The door to his room had been locked just in case, and he had his drawing supplies nearby. As it was getting late, his parents had gone to bed early after a long day of being respectable, upstanding members of society. It really was the perfect time, and he had been itching for _more_ the entire weekend.

So why was he hesitating?

There it was, Takanori’s conscience, whispering into his brain, telling him all about how fucked up he was for watching and enjoying something so — well, so _shady_. He knew nothing of the video’s origins, but there was one thing he did know: blind boy was not some mythical creature existing solely for the purpose of being beautifully taken advantage of. He was a real person, strolling through the park, as mysterious and eyeless in the flesh as in the videos — but he was _real_. And he likely would not be pleased to know that he was the object of fascination for a couple twenty-something convenience store employees who lived with their parents.

If he were to be honest, a part of Takanori knew that he just wasn’t keen on stooping to Ishida’s level. Ishida, whose private life eluded him, but he suspected it consisted mostly of sitting in front of a computer, jerking it to various forms of fucked up pornography. And even after all these months of watching (and occasionally enjoying) whatever it was that Ishida sent his way, little of it had actually been particularly interesting before this... yet even so, few things made Takanori feel as uncomfortable as the thought of actively sharing masturbation fantasies with Ishida.

… still, his mouse hovered over the thumbnail. He already knew that it was a losing battle, his curiosity and desire for _more_ winning over. But Takanori still wanted to have some form of dignity when it came to this, so instead of letting it play, he paused it immediately, grabbing his sketchbook and pencil.

Allowing himself to be spoiled slightly, he skipped ahead to a random point in the middle of the video, studying what he saw; a much brighter room, bright, soft lights seemingly pouring in from every angle — blind boy was in the middle of it all, in a mess of sunny bedsheets with black lace over his eyes and his long, dark hair falling down his naked shoulder and chest. His lips were slightly parted, but otherwise he seemed entirely indifferent to the man whose lap he was sitting on, one big hand grabbing his pale throat and the other grasping a bare hip. Though Takanori couldn’t see the other man’s face behind blind boy’s body, he had a pretty good guess that it would be hidden in some way as well.

Maybe he was just stalling — hell, Takanori knew that he was, as he gripped the pencil, sketching out the scene in front of him. He kept sketching, staring at the image on screen until he could no longer remember the reason why he felt shame in the first place. But just as he was finishing the dark shadow on the anonymous man’s flexed arm, he was interrupted by the phone in his pocket vibrating loudly. It was so abrupt that Takanori flinched, pencil leaving an ugly line of graphite from the faceless man and across blind boy’s thin chest.

“Fucking…” Takanori muttered through gritted teeth, dropping the pencil and pulling out the offending phone. Part of him expected to see an unknown number, maybe Ishida’s, glaring back at him. (When he thought about it, it was odd that Ishida had never gotten hold of his phone number, unless he had and just never used it.) Thankfully, the number was not unknown. Suzuki’s name greeted him instead, the message asking if Takanori was free to hang out this Friday. Suzuki was a guy he considered a friend but only saw about twice a month or so, on Fridays when they both had time to spare. Or more accurately, when Suzuki had time, usually being busy with his studies or work.

He replied quickly. It was Suzuki’s turn to pick movies this week; Takanori really hoped he wouldn’t be stuck watching shlock again, like last time Suzuki decided what they would watch. Not that Takanori really minded, though; he had spent the entire runtime poking fun at the movie and Suzuki both, half-drunk and without a care in the world. So hell yes, did he have time on Friday. The porn that Ishida no doubt had waiting by then could wait.

Glancing at the drawing again, he frowned slightly. It wasn’t necessarily _ruined_ , a cracked and colourless shoddy mirror image of the paused video on the laptop monitor, but... the phone vibrated again, Suzuki’s message stating _great_ and nothing else, which wasn’t a surprise because he wasn’t exactly a man of many words when it came to texting. Turning the phone off, Takanori put it away before he rewound the video, finally pressing play.

It didn’t start out too differently from the first one. A dark hallway, hushed voices, the silhouette of a man leading another figure whom he now knew to be blind boy into a room. Then, a flip was switched, bathing the room he had already let himself see in yellow lights. Blind boy was wearing a black coat that was so long it almost touched the floor, his eyes covered in a black blindfold rather than the lace mask.

The man was different than the one from the first video, Takanori could already tell. He was shorter, for one, of equal height rather than towering over blind boy, and he didn’t seem to possess the bulky kind of muscle as the first man. As Takanori had suspected, his face was obscured, covered in what looked like scribbled ink, as though someone had meticulously gone through each frame of film to cover him up. Reaching out wiry arms, the man grabbed blind boy by the collar of his coat, guiding the two of them towards the bed, sitting down and beginning to undo the many buttons. Slowly the coat was removed, revealing a skimpy outfit: lacy stockings and garters, small black shorts and a vest to match, a choker around his throat. Blind boy was commanded to sit down, and the faceless man stood up, pulling seemingly out of nowhere a strip of lace, moving to tie it around blind boy’s head, over the blindfold. 

And it was in that moment, when the lace was tied around his eyes, that everything changed, blind boy’s hands shooting up to grab the man’s wrists — not in an attempt to stop him, but merely to _hold_ — before his face seemingly cracked into a grin, one that was so startling and bright Takanori was almost blinded himself. Glancing down to the sketch of the apathetic face on the paper, Takanori found himself wondering what happened the few minutes between now and the moment he had drawn.

The faceless man had sat down and began caressing blind boy, the boy’s grin not faltering for a second, playing along and lying down on the pale sheets. He stretched out, pushing his long legs into the other’s lap, almost shoving his knee into the not-face. And then he _laughed_. 

Takanori had not heard him laugh before, had only heard his softly spoken words and moans, and he had only raised his voice to cry out once; by comparison, now he sounded almost maniacal. Looking over at the man, he saw what had likely caused the laughter — the faceless man licking a long line from blind boy’s knee to inner thigh. Takanori could only see the remains of the action, the stripe of shining saliva on the skin where a stocking had been pulled down. The man was working on removing the shorts, blind boy wriggling his hips along, still laughing, but it was unclear whether he wanted to stall the inevitable or hurry it up.

Eventually the shorts were slid off, leaving blind boy naked from the waist down but for the lingerie, as he apparently hadn’t worn underwear. The man opened the buttons of the vest as well, baring the thin chest, then moved blind boy to sit up, guiding the hands towards the zipper of his own pants, the boy’s cue to get to work. And the boy did, giggling all the while as he worked the zipper, pulled off the man’s pants, palming the groin through simple, tight briefs. There was not a word spoken between the two of them as blind boy stripped the man completely, exposing more wiry muscle and a surprisingly large dick, then lowered his face towards the man’s crotch, grin still in place. It was beginning to remind Takanori more of a cornered animal baring its teeth than a genuine smile.

A suggestive thrust of hips, shoving that monstrous cock closer to the boy’s mouth, a large hand in long hair; it was all it took for the boy to pull his teeth back, giving the man a long, slow lick, teasing and tasting him. But the man was impatient, the hand in the hair tightening, pushing the boy to open up, take him in, as much as he could, _all_ of him. And Takanori could barely believe what he was watching, wondering what kind of unearthly talent the boy possessed to be able to take so much into his mouth, and so quickly… fuck if it wasn’t it was the hottest thing he had seen so far, and he could feel his own pants tightening, almost painfully.

But the artist in him, his _pride_ , held him back, because he didn’t want to masturbate to this. Not yet. He wasn’t even halfway through.

Watching the two, Takanori was entranced. How the boy somehow managed to take in the entirety of the faceless man’s massive cock like it was nothing, the way a thick strand of saliva connected the organ to flushed, bow-shaped lips when he surfaced to breathe and grin with lips that looked as though they were made solely for the purpose of giving head, how the boy laughed throatily when the man pushed him to lie on his stomach… Takanori needed to draw it all. But there was so much _happening_. He watched as the man rubbed himself against blind boy, not yet penetrating ( _how the fuck was that even going to fit_?), Takanori’s own erection begging for attention, the fact that there was so much left to see still...

And then that bubble of pride abruptly burst as blind boy lifted his hips in the air, back arched, and the man thrust in almost effortlessly. _Well, fuck_ , Takanori thought, hurriedly undoing his jeans and slipping a hand inside. To make himself last, he kept a rather languid pace, whereas the man on screen was almost brutal in the way he fucked the boy into the mattress, leaving red handprints everywhere he touched. Beneath him, blind boy was practically livid, moaning and whining loudly, shuddering whenever the man’s hands would dip down to stroke him.

After a while, the man slowed, lifting blind boy up to sit on his lap, tearing the open vest off and throwing it away, fully exposing the skinny chest. He grabbed the boy’s throat, and there it was, the moment Takanori had drawn. And just like in the drawing, blind boy was no longer laughing, the wild grin wiped from his face — he just looked exhausted now, panting softly and his head lolling to the side. He didn’t get more than a few short moments to rest, though, the strong fingers on his neck tightening; and like that the man lifted him up, forcing the boy to support himself on weary legs or choke. All so that the man could reposition them, allow the boy to take as much charge as he could in his tired state, slowly sinking down on the large cock underneath him. But he was tired, face twisting in discomfort all the way down, letting out a gasp when he was fully seated on the hilt. Takanori hadn’t even noticed he had stopped his own strokes, hand clasped around his own shaft.

They both sat there, blind boy and Takanori, quietly letting themselves get a moment to breathe. Then, the faceless man began to lift the boy again, helping him move up around the length, riding slowly. Takanori too began to move again, keeping the same slow rhythm as the two on the screen, pace gradually increasing to keep up with them.

The video was beginning to near its end when everything changed again. Blind boy had regained some of his energy, and was fucking himself harshly on the man’s cock, riding hard as the man’s hands grasped and clawed at his chest, neck and face. A few fingers slipped into a willing mouth, and maybe blind boy realized in that moment he had an opportunity to gain the upper hand… the corners of his lips curled upwards, and he grinned, laughed around the fingers, choked on them, maybe — and bit down. 

Perfect teeth dug into the flesh of the faceless man’s fingers, and Takanori had to cover his mouth to muffle his own surprised gasp. The man barely even reacted, merely gripped the boy’s hip harder as blood began to run down blind boy’s lips, his chin, an impossible amount of red flowing in rivulets down a bony chest and soiling the sheets, their legs, blind boy’s own erection — and as if on cue, the faceless man tore his hand out of the biting mouth, reaching down to bring the boy to completion.

They both came undone at the same time, blind boy and Takanori — the boy throwing his head back and crying out, Takanori muffling his own voice with a hand and biting his tongue as his vision went blank, coming harder than he could ever remember doing. Yet he had to force his eyes to stay open, needing to see it all. The man was still brutalizing the boy with his own body, though he seemed to be closing in on his own climax, too; and all the while, the red fluid was seemingly everywhere, but it was no longer as bright or vivid as before… maybe it was just dizziness that was making Takanori see things, but he could swear it looked like… wine.

His dazed mind could hardly comprehend anything anymore, still working on coming down from that high as the man finished up, having at some point shoved the boy off his lap and back down on all four, leaving handprints of maybe-blood on trembling hips. He was close, thrusts almost having lost all rhythm, fucking the gasping boy quickly and sloppily until finally, _finally_ he was done, coming heavy and hard, covering the boy’s back, ass, thighs in his leavings.

Without the extra support, blind boy collapsed into the stained sheets, the man gone. He rolled over, struggling to catch his breath. Blood caked his chin and mouth, a thin coat of red on his body along with the semen. He looked absolutely debauched. And Takanori watched, fascinated as blind boy raised his arm, an open wine bottle in his hand that hadn’t been there before — and grinned, the same expression as earlier, cocky and mocking yet sunnier than the fluorescent lights had ever been — before he turned it upside down, pouring the contents across the sheets, staining himself even further.

One last laugh, weaker this time, and blind boy crumbled, body falling still on the bed along with the emptied bottle.

 

The next day, Takanori called in sick. Sure, the manager chewed his ear off for having the gall to dare take a day off, but he just couldn’t stand the thought of looking Ishida in the eye. And what if blind boy came by again?

In truth, he really just needed some time to digest all the images, put some distance between himself and it all to be able to get a grasp of the real world again. Takanori knew he couldn’t afford to freeze up like he had yesterday, the ways Ishida did every time the boy walked past. Should someone — like his manager — notice his strange behavior, trouble was sure to come his way.

Shortly after the video ended, he had taken a shower. The sound of pouring water had apparently awoken his parents, judging by how his father decided to spend an unnecessary amount of time yelling at him that morning. Takanori claimed feeling ill and not being able to sleep, which wasn’t entirely a lie; fortunately, his mother seemed to believe him, letting him off whatever hook his father was preparing for him this time. Then, she recommended Takanori drink some of that nice imported herbal tea she thought was the solution to everything, before the two left for work and left him to spend his day alone in the empty apartment.

As if tea could heal anything; that was bullshit, of course, Takanori thought as he slung himself down on the sleek couch in the now deserted living room. It was just tea. Still tasted good though, he decided, taking a sip. His sketchbook and pencils were neatly laid out on the coffee table. He should be _happy_ , because he had everything he ever deemed necessary: tea, art supplies, solitude and porn. What else did he need?

(except for companionship, maybe. Ishida did most definitely not count.)

Somehow the living room seemed much larger than before. Huge and vacant but for himself and the furniture. A bitter thought was creeping through his head, and it didn’t take long before he recognized it. It was loneliness. _What is wrong with me_ , Takanori wondered, staring blankly at the family pictures on the wall above him. He couldn’t even see the photos, the sharp black frames blocking his view. _I’m finally home alone. I like having the place for myself. What the fuck is wrong with me._

Grimacing he reached out, searching for a distraction, and grabbed the sketchpad from the table. He was greeted by the boy’s blindfolded face, fresh sketches from the night before — in the end, Takanori ended up not going to bed until something like four in the morning, mind too occupied with the images from the videos to rest — he had only partially been lying.

By now, he could draw blind boy pretty well without needing a reference of some kind. His eyes traced the lines that were slowly adding up in front of him, expanding his sketches to make them more complete. And as Takanori worked, he let his mind wander; it was Tuesday. Only a few more days until Friday, until he would meet up with Suzuki and get his monthly fill of rare friendship, bad movies and cheap booze.

Maybe he should bring something more classy to the party this time, Takanori thought. It was relatively easy to break into his parents' liquor cabinet, and if he remembered correctly, there should still be that unopened bottle of wine in there. Usually he and Suzuki would meet up and buy cheap light beer that tasted terrible but was easy on their wallets, even if it barely carried any punch at all, and left the two of them tipsy by the end of the night but never really drunk. Except for that one time when he had stolen a bottle of gin and they had both gotten shitfaced extremely quickly.

Embarrassingly quickly, actually — that was the night that he learned just how low his and Akira’s alcohol tolerances really were.

Of course, Takanori’s parents had noticed and he suspected they knew what happened to that bottle of gin, but they never punished him for it. They rarely drank at home anyway, so making off with the untouched wine bottle should be safe, at least for a while... 

_The wine…_

Feeling inspiration strike, Takanori flipped to a fresh page. He filled in the dark spots of the sketchy sheets, drawing from memory that scene of blind boy pouring the liquid all over the mattress and himself, a crazed expression on his face. It was startling really, how different the boy’s behavior had been from the first video. From subdued and quiet to wild, like his mind wasn’t right… Takanori couldn’t tell if that was the case, of course, having only watched two videos so far. For all he knew, the uncontrollable young man might have been the truer to his character than the silent one. What was he really like? Was he open about his work, proud of it, or did he prefer to pretend it didn’t exist? And what about outside of the porn? Was he arrogant and cocky, or shy, silent and reserved?

It was when he found himself wondering what blind boy’s favourite colour might be, that Takanori realized what his mind was doing, and he mentally slapped himself. _Stop. Just stop_. He put the book away, took a long sip of slowly cooling tea, lay himself back down on the couch and closed his eyes. Maybe the tea would work wonders, like his mom claimed it did; maybe it would let him slip into a tranquil dreamland even though the sun was shining brightly through the blinds and his closed eyelids… even though he could see blind boy’s smiling face, see the way he slowly inched down on someone’s cock, legs invitingly spread wide, for _him_ , maybe…

He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. The heat was enveloping him. He couldn’t see anything but the images that his mind replayed, the videos — but it was no longer the boy, blindfold replaced by sunglasses, his hair bleached blonde where it had been black… and he reached out with flushed lips, reached out to Takanori, who met him halfway and allowed himself to be taken in by that engulfing heat…

As much as Takanori usually prided himself on being able to resist temptation, he was no match for this, because fuck, he couldn’t stand it anymore; it was all too overwhelming. And with the sketchbook half-full with drawings of the boy abandoned, Takanori gave in, hands in his pants as he frantically worked himself on the sofa in the middle of his parents' empty living room, his mind filled with images not of the boy, but the man in the sunglasses.


	3. Chapter 3

When Takanori showed up to work again (and he _did_ , lest he feel his father’s wrath again), it almost surprised him how easy it was to fall back into that monotonous schedule of _work-work-work_. Ishida had sent him another video in the evening, and yes, Takanori had watched it all, repeatedly, and _yes,_ he did sit up for too long into the night drawing in his steadily filling book. But when dawn arrived, he had woken up with a clear mind, ready to settle back into the mindset where everything was normal. 

Even the days when blind boy did come around, Takanori didn’t spare him more than a brief glance, busy working. Even with all the things that had transpired in the past few nights, and everything his brain had conjured up, he was strangely fine with seeing the man there, because it was just so… ordinary. Just as Takanori knew that Ishida was standing somewhere, gawking as he usually did. And in the corner of his eye, whatsherface Fuji-something was sending Ishida a reprimanding scowl that probably went completely unnoticed to everyone but Takanori.

The days grew strangely comfortable like that. While at work, he would slip back into the old routine, very much aware of sunglasses guy’s presence whenever he came around, but not really acknowledging he was there. Instead, Takanori went about his day as he usually would, pretending to be friendly with strangers, tucking his right ear away into the mess of hair, avoiding Ishida and the manager until he could go home... and when the sky darkened and the apartment fell quiet, he would find another video waiting in his inbox. It would always be different from the others in some way, but always intriguing and with that artistic quality that he had grown to love so much.

In the few days since it had started, Takanori had come to look forward to the evenings, to the videos in his inbox. And granted, some were certainly more… disturbing than others, in various ways — some he could only describe as violent — but Takanori didn’t really think it mattered. It was all for the sake of the art, after all. And though he wasn’t entirely sure why Ishida was so keen on sharing the videos with him every night, he didn’t think that mattered particularly either. Whatever Ishida’s reasons were, he neither wanted or needed to know. Takanori was fine assuming that Ishida just felt the need to overshare again, and for once he wasn’t about to complain.

That’s what he thought, at least until Friday finally arrived, and Ishida suddenly pulled him aside just as they were leaving work.

“What is it, Ishida? I don’t have time for this,” Takanori said, arms crossed. In front of him, Ishida shifted his weight between his feet, looking around the alley behind the store that he had dragged Takanori into. He seemed nervous, constantly glancing towards the shop’s back door and the street as if he was worried someone would come interrupt them.

“I need your help with something, Matsumoto,” he said, deeming the alley safe for now and turning pleading eyes to Takanori.

Takanori grunted in response, indicating for Ishida to continue. “Make it quick.”

“I can’t do it alone, because you know I’m not the most outgoing person — you’re the only one I can trust about this, y’know? I’ve wanted to do this for so long, since he first started coming around, but I didn’t know how to go about it because if I would mess it up—”

He was babbling again, dragging out the conversation and stalling whatever it was he wanted to communicate. Takanori raised a hand in irritation, and Ishida promptly shut up. “Just get to the point already,” he grumbled. “This is about sunglasses guy?”

A nod. “There is a... reason why I’ve been sending you the videos every day,” Ishida said, dropping the volume of his voice down a notch. “I wanted to… to, you know.” He made a vaguely obscene gesture with his hands. 

“What.”

“To... you know. _Approach_ him. I can’t do it alone.”

“... are you asking me to be your wingman?” When he was met with more silence, Takanori growled, ”Oh for fuck’s sake, just spit it out!”

“No! Well… yes, technically, but—” Ishida cut himself off again, looked away as if embarrassed. “Not like that, I mean, I want to… to _have_ him. You do too, don’t you? So I thought... maybe we could… together.”

An uncomfortable sensation was settling in Takanori’s gut, and he took a small step back, Ishida’s hopeful eyes meeting his startled gaze. _Good lord_ , Takanori thought, _he’s actually serious about this_. “Wait, are you suggesting...”

A small nod. “I thought about it for a long time, it would be really hot, yeah?” And now his voice was so _excited_ , words coming almost too fast for how slow and quiet his mouth had been just a moment ago, and Takanori’s jaw was somewhere on the floor, shocked by what Ishida was offering. “You, me, and him, just imagine it, it would be just—” Cutting himself off, Ishida made another uncomfortable gesture, before seemingly calming down. “But I don’t dare to talk to him alone, and you are so much more confident than me—”

“What the _fuck_ , hold up,” Takanori interrupted, barely believing the things he was hearing. Sure, Takanori’d had plenty of inappropriate fantasies starring himself and sunglasses guy in the past week since the videos started coming, but Ishida was never present in any of them, and now he found himself absolutely appalled at the thought of what Ishida was suggesting. “Wait, this is why you’ve been showing me all these videos lately? Because you wanted to convince me to join you for a fucking _threesome?_ ”

He tried to picture it — him and Ishida, with blind boy between them — and then balked at the idea, shaking his head violently to erase the images from his mind because _fuck_ , no.

Ishida lifted his hands, looking rather distressed. “No, I— well yes but, you don’t need to join! I thought you would want to share is all— wait, don’t go!”

“If you want to screw him so badly, why don’t you just approach him yourself?!” Takanori barked, slinging his bag over his shoulder with more force than he needed to. Behind him, Ishida made some small pitiful noises, trying to grab him by the arm again to prevent him from leaving, but Takanori shrugged him off angrily. “I’m not gonna help you get laid, and I don’t want to be part of your creepy fantasies. You’re fully capable of talking to the guy yourself, Ishida,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “For god’s sake. Grow a pair, and leave me out of it.”

He left the alleyway, hearing Ishida call out for him one last time. Takanori didn’t care, raising a hand to flip him off and was gone, ignoring the glare a passing woman sent him at the gesture. It all made sense now, he supposed. For a creep, Ishida was pretty shy, and didn’t really talk to anyone other than him. Takanori had always thought that was a good thing. Less unfortunate incidents would take place if the perpetrator wasn’t man enough to go through with it, after all.

The world was already full of shit. It didn’t need Takanori to help make it worse by making some weirdo’s wet dreams come true. And now he was running late to meet up with Suzuki, too.

God _fucking_ Ishida.

 

For as much as Ishida’s presence irritated Takanori, Fridays _were_ good days. After their little fallout, he had been late as he’d unfortunately predicted, but Suzuki didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice how Takanori’s usual punctuality was off today. Which suited Takanori rather well; he did take great pride in being precise, if nothing else, and he did prefer to be on time for something he actually looked forward to. Lately, their monthly meetups seemed to be the highlight of his life, the ability to socialize with someone he actually liked to be around a nice change in his otherwise drab reality.

It was safe to say that Takanori didn’t really have friends. Which was funny, because he used to be somewhat of a social butterfly, but after getting to Tokyo he had grown bitter and generally unpleasant to be around. With the move, Takanori had left the people he did know behind him, along with his dreams.

He had met Suzuki Akira when he was still new to the city, after having stupidly stormed out after an argument with his father. After running around in the city for a while, he had managed to stumble into a drunken group of college kids hanging around outside a mall in the evening, and somehow gotten talking to the only sober guy amongst them. Surprisingly, the guy had turned out to be ridiculously nice, and very easy to talk to, and so he had stayed with the group of drunks for a while; as loud as the others were, the two of them hit off quite well and found themselves quickly becoming friends.

Afterwards he’d followed Akira around like a puppy because, much to his embarrassment, he didn’t know the way home. Granted, Akira seemed to understand his situation and took pity on him, not seeming to mind Takanori’s clinginess, going so far as to letting him crash at his place for the night.

Even so, their friendship didn’t extend very far, mostly due to Akira’s busy schedule, but the two of them still met up every couple weeks to hang out and drink together. It was nice and it was comfortable; and as usual, they were sprawled out in Akira’s living room, surrounded by cans of watery, light beer. The movie they had put on to watch had at some point lost their interest, and now it was droning on in the background, little more than white noise with the volume turned down low.

At least Takanori had stopped watching. Akira’s eyes would still trail back to the television every now and then, his hand twirling a half-empty can of beer. He had busied himself stacking their empty cans on top of each other as they mindlessly chatted about whatever came to mind, though his gaze was rather unfocused and the small tower threatened to topple over at any moment.

Finally, Akira sighed in defeat. “This movie sucks, man,” he exclaimed. “I wish I’d brought my consoles with me when I moved out. Then we could at least have something fun to do.”

“Don’t blame me, it was your turn to pick,” Takanori shrugged. “Reap what you sow, and all that. You’re the one with terrible taste in movies. I don’t really do gaming, anyway.”

“You’re so boring. What’d you have us do, if you got to choose?”

“Watch something more interesting.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe an actually _good_ movie. Or porn.”

Akira snorted. “Real classy, Taka.”

“Don’t bastardize my name. Or even better, an actually _good_ porn. Best of both worlds.”

He answered by grabbing an empty can from the half-assed beer tower and flinging it in the general direction of Takanori’s head. It completely missed, of course, except for a few stray drops from the can that went flying, hitting Takanori’s cheek.

He rubbed the beer away with the back of his hand, laughing. “What, you don’t watch porn?”

“Like hell I don’t,” Akira snorted. “What man doesn’t? I just don’t do it in company. That would be weird. I don’t do _weird_.”

“You’re so _boring_ ,” Takanori teased, repeating Akira’s earlier line. “Hey, I wasn’t seriously suggesting it. It’s just kinda… on my mind, you know?”

“Because you’re a pervert? This may shock you, but I already know.”

“ _No_ , because my piece of shit of a colleague has been emailing me weird shit for months now, and there is not enough bleach in the world to forget it,” Takanori said, taking a slow sip of his own beer. “And you’re a bigger pervert than me anyway, so you aren’t one to talk.”

In the corner of his eye, Akira made a face. “What, that creep Shinada or whatever his name was—”

“Ishida.”

“— yeah, that nutcase, I don’t like him. Why do you keep talking to him?”

“Hey, I don’t like him either, and it’s not like I want to be his best friend, he’s the one who’s all friendly with _me_. But he’s my colleague, and I don’t want to make a mess with the people I’m stuck with… so I just… tolerate him.” He trailed off, then took another sip. “I doubt we’ll be talking much more from now on anyway. We kinda had a fight.”

“You should stay away from him, Taka,” Akira said, and the light tone from earlier was entirely gone from his voice.

Takanori hummed in response, not liking the direction this conversation was going. “I really want to bleach my hair,” Takanori drawled instead, to change the topic, watching as Akira drained the rest of his beer and placed the can precariously on top of his aluminium fort. “Dye it, maybe. I had purple hair once, you know, back before I had to move.” He took another swig of his own drink, grimacing at the cheap taste. “Hey, ‘kira, what hair colour do you think would look good on me?”

Akira looked him over briefly. “Pink,” he said, without hesitation.

Takanori snorted. “As if. I’m serious.”

“Fine. Green.”

“No.”

“Hm. Blue?”

“Do I look like a goddamn rainbow to you?”

“Definitely. Red.”

“Fuck you,” Takanori said, pulling a little at his own black locks from where they were tucked behind his pierced ear, imagining the hair as a sharp red. It could look good, at least for the ends, he thought, but it would probably look way too dramatic. “I think I’d go for a more natural colour… blond, maybe. Not bleach blond like you, but darker.” 

“In other words, I should just have said yellow and completed the rainbow.”

“Piss off.” He thought back to the guy with the sunglasses, remembering the way his long, golden hair would glow warmly when the sunlight hit it just right, and found himself smiling at the image. “There’s this guy I know who has really nice hair, dark blond. Almost brown. I think it’d look good.” He took another drink of the beer, glancing over at Akira who had gone strangely quiet. “No? If you don’t agree, you could just say so.”

And then Akira sat up, leaving his tower of empty beer cans to stare at the TV, his gaze oddly blank. “Hey, mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Takanori said, leaning back and resting his head against the couch.

“Say, you went through something horrible,” Akira began, then grabbed a fresh can and opened it, though he didn’t drink any. “And then you came back, and everyone knew what happened to you.” 

Tearing his eyes away from the TV, Takanori looked at Akira, brows furrowed. “Horrible how?” But Akira wouldn’t meet his gaze, choosing instead to stare at the can he was turning over in his hands.

“That’s not important. What I’m wondering is… if you were put in that situation, how would you want people to treat you afterwards?”

“Huh,” was all Takanori managed to come up with at first, Akira looking at him expectantly. And while his slight buzz prevented him for really considering the question, he did take a moment to gather his thoughts. Even if it was just a brief one. “I guess I’d just want people to treat me like they used to,” he said eventually. “Like, I wouldn’t want them to bring it up, you know? I would just want them to be normal around me.”

“Like nothing ever happened,” Akira agreed, then nodded, slowly. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured sleepily, then stretched his body out on the carpet. Just as Takanori was considering to ask why the sudden question, Akira laughed, whatever was bothering him seemingly forgotten. Reaching for the remote, he flicked the TV off. “But hey, if you really want to dye your hair, then you should go for it.”

Takanori chuckled. “Yeah, I wish it were that easy too.”

“What’s stopping you?” Akira said, grinning, throwing an arm across Takanori’s shoulder. “If you need someone to do it, then I can always help you out, man.”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” he said, shrugging. “My parents would kill me, and I’d probably lose my job, but you know. Whatever.”

Akira grew quiet for a second, before nodding in understanding. “Right, that’s true.”

 

As per usual, the two of them ended up talking and drinking into the night, until Takanori found himself starting to doze off and they both decided that going to bed would be the best option. The morning found them sprawled all over each other in Akira’s bed, Akira curled up close for warmth as Takanori had at some point decided to hog the blankets. 

Warm morning light was filtering in through the window, and annoyingly, directly onto Takanori’s closed eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, not wanting to wake just yet. Then, the feeling of Akira shifting next to him, followed by a loud yawn, and then the warmth of his body disappeared. Cracking one eye open, he saw Akira sitting up in bed, sleepily rubbing his eyes. He closed his eyes again, turning over to escape the light and Akira’s unnaturally bright head, wanting to go back to sleep.

Akira, despite the raging macho-persona he proudly flaunted about, didn’t give a fuck about guys being touchy with each other. Takanori had learned this one of their earlier Fridays together, when they had gotten off their rocks drunk on stolen gin and Akira drunkenly decided to spare Takanori the inevitable neck pain caused by sleeping on the not quite comfortable sofa and just threw the two of them into bed. His own bed. Where Akira too, slept. Takanori hadn’t minded at the time; as much as he loathed to admit it, when alcohol got involved, he had a tendency to get embarrassingly clingy. Besides, between the move, shutting himself away from the world and his parents, and the then-new job grating on him, he was lonely. So being able to curl up with someone he genuinely enjoyed being around was, well — nice.

Not that Takanori would ever admit it, of course, but he did miss the warmth that had previously been curled about his back. Lying there, listening to the sound of Akira walking around in the space he called a bedroom as he dressed himself, Takanori drowsily found himself wondering what it would be like to actually _be_ with someone. Not Akira, obviously; for all that he was fine with cuddling very male friends, he still claimed to be very much straight. And for as much as Akira was a good cuddle buddy, Takanori couldn’t really see the two of them together like that.

It would still be nice, though.

“Dude, I know you’re awake,” came Akira’s voice, gruff from disuse. “You gotta get up. I got work in a bit.” Takanori just groaned unhappily in reply, not wanting to get up. It was Saturday and it was way too early. “Come on up, Taka.”

“... don’t bastardize my name, ‘kira,” Takanori mumbled into the pillow, the only response some very amused chuckling accompanied by the rustling of fabric as Akira continued to get dressed. Just as Takanori was starting to doze off again, there was a slight shuffle of movement by his legs, and he only had a brief second’s warning before Akira was unceremoniously tearing the covers away from his body. 

Curling up to preserve what little warmth was left, Takanori tore his eyes open, shivering as the cold air hit him, before grabbing the pillow by his head and throwing it somewhere in the direction of Akira’s laughter. He rubbed his eyes miserably. “Good morning to you too, fucker…”

Eventually, Akira managed to convince Takanori to stop whining and get out of bed properly, watching in amusement how he stumbled around gathering his clothes and getting dressed. It wasn’t even ten. How Akira managed such a sunny attitude so early in the morning on a weekend was beyond him, but he supposed it was a side effect of being so adamant about getting around and up in life, what with being a college kid with a car and job and all. 

After an unsatisfactory breakfast, Akira ushered Takanori out the door, claiming he needed a shower and then would leave right away so Takanori might as well go, as was usual for their biweekly visits. It wasn’t until the door of his parents' apartment closed behind him that Takanori realized that he’d forgotten his jacket. 

He kicked the door a little, for good measure. Granted, he didn’t need it, as it was only Saturday — he wasn’t going to leave the apartment until Monday anyway, so there was no use in getting worked up over it. Maybe he could just stall until next Friday, because there was nothing of importance in the pockets, aside from a lighter and a beaten pack of cigarettes that he knew was empty. And… wait, oh, _fuck_. His keys were in the jacket. He would actually need the damn jacket at some point, then. How had he even managed to forget it?

Grumbling, Takanori shrugged his shoes off with more aggression than necessary, not wanting to run straight back to Akira’s place. Making his way towards his room, he waved hello to his mother who was sitting by the dining table, reading the news. She asked him where he’d been, but Takanori ignored her in favor of shutting his bedroom door slightly harder than needed. It wasn’t like she didn’t know about his impromptu friendship with Suzuki anyway, and he was busy moping over his own forgetfulness, missing the feeling of soft, worn leather on his back.

It was stupid. Mostly, he was just disappointed in himself for managing to forget the damn thing. And it was a really nice jacket...

As if on cue, his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden loud noise of his cellphone going off. Hastily he pulled it out from his pocket, glancing at the screen. Suzuki.

“ _Hey man! Did you get home yet?_ ” Akira’s voice boomed in his ear as he picked up.

“Hey, Suzuki,” Takanori nodded uselessly, sitting himself down on the corner of his bed. “Just did, yeah. Say, could you do me a favor—”

“ _— and bring over your jacket? Sorry, no can do_ ,” Akira interrupted, and Takanori frowned. He was out and about, then. “ _I’m almost at work, don’t have time to get to your place afterwards. But I did bring it with me, so..._ ”

Takanori sighed loudly, rather displeased at being cut off. He really didn’t feel like leaving the house again, feeling the need to bunker down in his room and stay there for the rest of the weekend. On the other end of the line Akira continued, ignoring his obvious annoyance.

" _Just drop by the shop at some point, yeah? I’m off at five, so just come over sometime before then. Right, see you around!_ "

He hung up. Takanori hadn’t even gotten the chance to reply yet, to vocalize his childish need to stay home all day rather than going out to get a jacket that he technically didn’t even need until Monday. And he was slightly offended at being disregarded so abruptly, taking a few moments to scrutinize his phone.

Takanori knew that his mind would start wandering to unpleasant places if he didn’t get up and busy himself with something. At times like these, his brain would always try to take time to wonder if he and Suzuki really _were_ friends, if Suzuki would spare him the time to hang out outside of the usual monthly meetup, had he the opportunity. Because usually, as soon as Takanori was out of Akira’s place, they didn’t really talk.

But that train of thought was too depressing to deal with, so Takanori got off bed, stuffing his phone back into his jeans pocket and turned on his laptop. A quick look at his inbox confirmed another thought he had been mulling over for the past few hours; no new video from Ishida last night. After having shot him down so forcefully, Takanori had expected nothing less, but he wondered if Ishida still considered the two of them friends. Or whatever it was he thought they were.

The rotten thoughts were beginning to infest his mind after all. Takanori cursed himself out; maybe he should just go get the jacket and get it over with. What else was there to do, anyway? There was nothing new from Ishida to watch, and nothing he wanted to draw, nothing to read or do or listen to. With that in mind, Takanori closed the laptop again, leaving his room only to be reminded that his mother was still home. Didn’t look like she would be for much longer though, judging by the bag on the chair where she had previously sat. She was now in the kitchen putting an empty teacup away, and when she heard him enter she looked up, smiling tightly.

“I’m going out for a bit,” Takanori said, quickly looking about the small living room. There was no trace of his father anywhere. “Where’s dad?”

“Left for his business trip this morning,” she answered. Seeing Takanori’s blank expression, a look of realization spread on her face, and she sighed. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Takanori muttered, “he didn’t.”

“Oh. Well, he’s coming back on Thursday. I’m going out soon, so I won’t see you again until tonight. I trust you can cook for yourself. There’s tea left, if you want some before you leave?”

He shrugged no, and she bade him farewell, silently lingering in the doorway and watching as Takanori put his boots back on. She didn’t say anything as he left.


	4. Chapter 4

Getting to Suzuki’s workplace didn’t take very long. He didn’t work very far from his apartment, which itself was only a short train ride away from where Takanori lived. This part of the city was far more crowded than it was by the convenience store, which was due thanks to the nearby mall, creating a rather busy shopping district. Every time Takanori was there, he asked himself why he didn’t come by more often; and every time he went back home, that thought would quickly be swallowed down once he met his father’s disapproving glare asking _where have you been_ and _why have you wasted all your money buying useless shit._

Still, Takanori spent some time wandering the streets, browsing stores and killing time, though he didn’t actually buy anything. It was mostly because he didn’t want it to look like he had rushed straight out as much as he actually _had._

Shock in the middle of the busy street was a relatively small coffee shop, one that was always teeming with customers looking for their next caffeine shot no matter the time of day. And it was in that coffee shop that Suzuki greeted him, red apron tied around his waist and matching uniform cap situated neatly in his bleached blond hair.

Takanori always wondered how Akira had managed to convince the shop’s manager to hire him.

“Welcome! May I take your order?”

“Real funny, Suzuki,” Takanori said dryly, staring at the goofy smile on Akira’s face. 

“What was that?”

“You know why I’m here, dude. Hand over my jacket already.”

To his credit, Akira was doing a surprisingly good job keeping his posture straight and serious. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your order, sir. Please clarify yourself, or I’ll have to move you to the back. You’re holding up the line,” he said, gesturing to the space behind Takanori where no people were waiting their turn. He was clearly not going to budge until Takanori decided to play along. 

Rolling his eyes, Takanori gave in, but he was smiling. “Fine. One medium-sized leather jacket to go, _please_.”

He was rewarded with a pleased nod, and then Akira reached beneath the counter before slinging his beloved leather jacket onto the counter. “That’ll be 2000 yen.”

“Oh fuck you, Suzuki.”

There was no bite to the words, of course, and Akira was struggling to hold his laughter back. “Did you want anything with that?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Takanori shook his head as he threw the jacket on. By the door, there was a chime, signaling new customers, and he moved away from the counter. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“‘Course, man. Say hi to your mom from me, by the way,” Akira called, telling him bye before turning his attention to the girls that had just walked in. Takanori had to suppress an amused chuckle seeing just how quick it took for Akira to get back to being all professional, though the smile was still in place. That was the thing with Suzuki, Takanori supposed, so quick to get back to work and all the while being so friendly with his customers that it felt like his teeth would start rotting just by looking at it.

Not that Takanori had been to Suzuki’s coffee shop enough times to know, but still. Suzuki simply was that way. Eager to please in order to succeed, to find his place in the world, somehow being both simultaneously relaxed and friendly around everyone whilst also being entirely independent. Strong and self-sufficient without needing to support himself on anyone. Unlike Takanori himself, who was more a freeloader than anything, and was likely way on his way to pull everyone down with him when he inevitably fell. He’d have to apologize to his mother at some point for that, he supposed. That probably wouldn’t go very well.

It was a shame he didn’t talk more with his family, Takanori mused as he left the shop, watching Akira diligently working through the large glass windows, brightly bleached hair a small sun in the dark interior. 

She loved Suzuki, he knew. Akira was like the perfect son; a bit of a workaholic, motivated and already well on his way to becoming successful. Maybe he didn’t have a great job, but he studied hard, showing great promise to get places in life, and he even had a car. An old thing, sure, but it was a _car_ , and it was _his_. The only thing seemingly holding Suzuki back was his stubborn refusal to dye his hair black. It made him different, marked him as rebellious and free-spirited, even for how grounded he was in reality… it had been difficult to get a job, to be taken seriously, but yet he refused to change back, be normal. And Takanori admired that. He really did.

He wished he, too, was brave enough to do that. To dye his hair, wear his earrings, his punk-style clothing, maybe get a tattoo at some point. But he knew his parents would never allow it, especially not his father; it made him feel… trapped; kept from expressing himself, from being who Takanori wanted to be, instead working a shit job for shit pay, just so that he could continue his existence, so that he could continue having a place to live with the parents he didn’t know how to talk to. Even so he knew he was the only one to blame for being so unfriendly and isolating himself away from his parents every day, running away every time they did try to get conversation out of him. But he simply didn’t want to be around them anymore. They knew that.

In his pocket, Takanori was fondling the empty cigarette box, hand sloppily folding the smooth paper texture; he deeply regretted not having gotten a new pack before leaving work. Thinking about the bullshit his life had become was stressing; he could really do with a smoke right about now. It wouldn’t be very long until he would really start to crave a cigarette, and he had smoked the last one whilst angrily storming off from Ishida on Friday.

Not wanting to resign himself to a fate without nicotine, Takanori went to look for someplace he could buy a new pack, feeling the gradually increasing need for a smoke steadily rise as he walked through the crowded streets. And maybe the dense masses of people walking around him were making him see things, but he could swear he saw a familiar figure standing there, leaned against the wall of a small café and sheltered from the crowd, someone with long, sunkissed hair and an oversized jacket and dark sunglasses perched on their face as they took slow drags from a cigarette…

It took all of Takanori’s concentration to remember to breathe and he didn’t realize he had completely stopped in his tracks until someone bumped into him, murmuring apologizes as they passed him by. Takanori would have been offended if he wasn’t just so entranced by what he was seeing, had to get closer, had to know if his mind was pulling tricks on him or not, and he made his way out of the heart of the crowd. 

Sunglasses.

_Oh._

It was him. It was the guy with the sunglasses, right there in front of him, standing there like it was nothing with a cigarette between his fingers.

Everything in Takanori’s brain was screaming at him to leave. This guy’s a porn star. This guy is Ishida’s creepy stalker crush. This guy is _really fucking hot_ and apparently blind and you have never seen his eyes and you really, _really_ want to know what he looks like without dark lenses or a blindfold but if you approach him now, you are going to be the creepy one, and do you really need that level of hypocrisy on top of everything else, Takanori?

But for all the reasoning his mind was yelling at him, fuck if the blind guy wasn’t potentially the most interesting person he’d ever come across, so instead Takanori ignored it all and did the stupid thing.

He approached the blind man as casually as he could manage, asked for a smoke, and wordlessly the stranger obliged, silently fishing a box out of his jacket pocket and handing the requested cigarette over. Takanori thanked him, and the blind man said nothing, quietly waiting as Takanori stuck the cig between his lips and lit it.

All the while he was trying his best not to look weird, making sure he wasn’t gazing at the other for too long at a time because blind or not, Takanori was pretty sure he would notice it if he just stood there, staring. As beautiful as the guy had been in the videos, up close he was so damn gorgeous it was honestly hard not to look at him. The mellow light that made his golden hair and pale skin almost look as though it was glowing, the long, slender fingers, the shape of those lips that wrapped around the cigarette...

But that’d be creepy. If there was one thing he did not want to be, it was a hypocrite, especially after telling Ishida off. So instead Takanori kept his gaze to himself and stared ahead, quietly watching the smoke swirling in front of his face as he tried to gather the courage to say something, introduce himself, break the ice, _anything_ —

And then the blind man broke the silence.

“So are you going to say anything, or what?”

The words startled Takanori so much that he almost dropped his cigarette. Turning to the other, he was met with the large, dark lenses covering part of the man’s face. Takanori didn’t know where to look. And the stranger had the nerve to smirk, those lips curling upwards as though he knew he was making Takanori feel this way, before pressing his own cigarette back to his mouth and taking a drag. Calm. Quiet. Blind.

And probably silently laughing.

“I— excuse me, what do you mean?”

“Hey, no worries. People approach me all the time, I’m used to it,” the stranger said, voice completely even, like it was the most normal thing in the world. There was a strangely familiar lilt to his voice as he spoke. “You can ask, but I’ll just answer before you do. No, I’m not famous. Yes, I know it’s not sunny today.”

That was unexpected. “Uh, no. I wasn’t going to ask that.”

He could sense those eyes looking in his direction behind the lenses, but all Takanori could see was the reflection of his own face looking back at him. He imagined a dark, vacant stare; it was unnerving.

“Well, then… I don’t know what to tell you,” the stranger said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry for assuming.” Then he laughed, and the sound of it was so light and warm that Takanori couldn’t help a slight smile just hearing it, before he could stop himself.

On the inside, Takanori was cheering, just a little, because the guy was actually cute. If that was a good thing or not was yet to be seen, though, but one thing Takanori did know; he had a chance to actually make contact. And though he considered mentioning Ishida’s suggestion, he was quick to dismiss that thought. Whoever sunglasses guy truly was, there was nothing he could possibly have done to deserve _that_.

Besides, sunglasses guy would probably make for a better acquaintance than whatever the fuck Ishida was, Takanori found himself thinking. Because screw Ishida, he was a court case just waiting to happen. And Takanori did not want to be around when it did.

“Actually,” Takanori began, keeping his voice steady and sure, “I have seen you around, here and there, and I guess I should tell you something…”

The stranger tilted his head in what he could only assume was curiosity, waiting for him to continue.

 _So that’s it?_ came the nag of Takanori conscience. _Just throw Ishida under the bus?_ To which the answer was a very clear _yes_ , and he continued. “I work at this convenience store some ways from here, you come by the park across the street every couple days, I thought I should probably warn you — a colleague of mine seems to have taken a bit of a… liking to you.” A confident drag of smoke into the air, to make him seem certain of whatever he was doing. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Ah,” was all the stranger said, dropping the butt of his smoked cig to the ground, stepping it out. “The tall, creepy dude? Yeah, I’ve noticed him.”

Well, that was a surprise. “You have?”

He was smirking again. “Sure have. Guy’s always staring at me. You wanna know something funny?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I go to that park because I _know_ that he’s there, watching me.”

Takanori paused, dropping his near-finished cig to the ground as well.

“I know his type, that kind of guy is usually all bark and no bite. So I wanted to know if he would get his head out of his ass and approach me one of these days.” A short laugh, and then he was simply smiling as though it was the funniest thing in the world. “But he never does. I don’t think he ever will, either.”

“What, do you come by just to let him stare at you for a few minutes?”

“What? No, of course not!” The reply was defensive, but he was still grinning, even as he reached down to pick up a familiar-looking red styrofoam cup from between his feet. “I mean, yes, kind of, but it’s not _because_ of that. I pass by there most days anyway. The park is a nice place to catch a break, your colleague just made it more… interesting. Honest.”

“Don’t worry, I believe you,” Takanori said, and he found his mood being significantly lifted just by being around this guy. He barely even noticed they had begun walking side by side, just _talking_. Like it was completely normal for two strangers to go for a stroll after exchanging a chat and a cigarette, where one was a blind porn star, and the other…

The blind guy didn’t even know anything about him. Takanori knew that; he’d seen so much of this man’s talent, and the guy had no idea. But what good would it do to bring it up? It would probably just make things awkward, and it wasn’t like it mattered anyway. He held no judgement over the other for his choice of career. What’s more, this way Takanori could get to know who he really was. No facade of impeccably shot artistic erotica; no embarrassing luggage. A blank slate. If he one day wanted to talk about his work, then Takanori wouldn’t stop him, but he wouldn’t be the one to bring it up. Until then, Takanori’s knowledge of the blind boy could remain a secret. 

He sent a glance to the young man who was walking by his side, chatting freely — and part of him found itself wondering, was this even the same person? They seemed like night and day. The man in the videos, blind boy... his behavior, though always seductive, ranged from quiet, calm and careful to wild and uncontrollable… whereas this guy seemed open, cheerful and ridiculously friendly.

Carefree. Human. And above all, _safe_.

So Takanori decided instead to push those thoughts away, at least for now, and instead said, “Hey, what’s your name?”

And the no-longer-a-stranger smiled at him, and maybe his mind was just pulling tricks on him again, but Takanori thought he could see the eyes behind the sunglasses shining. “Kouyou,” he said, and just like that an entire world seemed to open up. “Takashima Kouyou. You?”

He smiled back, and it had never felt more genuine. “Nice to meet you, Takashima, my name is Matsumoto.”

 

It was hours later when Takanori returned back home, apartment dark and empty as expected. He wasn’t entirely sure what had even happened, hadn’t expected to run into the man with the sunglasses like that — no, not sunglasses guy, and not blind boy, but _Kouyou_ — and he had actually talked to him. Walked side by side with him, held casual conversations, like it was no big deal. Eventually Takashima had announced that he had to leave, and they’d parted ways, but not before saying that _it was nice_ and _I’ll see you again sometime_.

It all left Takanori strangely… giddy. Somehow he felt like he had beaten Ishida, having been able to hold a normal conversation with the man they had watched, all without getting weird about it. And he knew it was petty, sure, but the thought of Ishida envying him over his ability to act like a decent human being was something that made him raise his head in pride just slightly.

But when he finally entered the living room, that bubble somehow… burst. It was similar to how he usually would lose his good mood when he returned home, but it was different. It wasn’t like Takanori’s parents were home to judge him, anyway — it was more like… returning to a place where he had done something terrible.

Which he had. And Takanori knew it, glancing over at the black sofa where he had laid, just days ago, masturbating to images of a man that he had now actually _met_. And he knew that he should be disgusted by his own actions rather than just continuing like there was nothing wrong with it, but… he couldn’t help himself, Takanori supposed as he found his bag by his bedside, digging through it until he pulled out his old sketchbook.

It was him, wasn’t it?

Takashima _was_ blind boy, wasn’t he? They had the same face, the same pale skin, long arms and legs and graceful fingers… was the voice the same?

He just had to know. That’s all; he just needed to know if it really was the same person or not, and the drawings could only tell him so much. That was what Takanori told himself as he went to the laptop, opening the folder where he had put Ishida’s videos.

He just wanted to _know_ ; there was nothing wrong with that.


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday came and went. Ishida remained quiet, nothing new of interest appearing in Takanori’s inbox over the weekend, and when Monday rolled around, he would barely even look Takanori in the eye, avoiding him like the plague. Which was strange, because usually it would be the other way around. It wasn’t surprising; Ishida was probably disappointed, possibly even embarrassed.

Takanori didn’t care. It suited him just fine. Even if he did long for more videos, that didn’t matter, because he could deal. Ishida would get over it at some point; he did consider Takanori his only friend in this place after all. 

Even though he knew well that he probably shouldn’t keep watching them, Takanori couldn’t help himself. He had spent his remaining weekend watching every video that Ishida had sent him, and in the end he had concluded that yes, Takashima _had_ to be blind boy. Unless there was some other mysterious young man out there somewhere who looked exactly like he did, had the same voice and shielded his eyes from the world.

His mind was elsewhere, and Takanori knew it, but there was nothing interesting happening anyway. Work had been slow all day, he only had a few hours left, and there was nobody lining up at the register where he sat. In moments such as these, Takanori could allow himself to overthink his life, because he didn't have anything to do.

When a customer did arrive, Takanori’s thoughts were still far away, and he quietly worked, scanning the barcodes of a few cans expensive beer. Whoever it was he was servicing, they clearly didn’t care to save money when it came to their alcohol. Or cigarettes, judging by the rather pricy brand they just requested. Had to be a loaded bastard.

Wait. 

He knew that voice.

Tearing himself away from his thoughts, he finally looked up, startled. “Takashima?”

And it was Takashima alright, an amused look on his face. The fluorescent lighting of the store was bathing him in a strange, white glow, Takanori’s reflection sharp in the lenses of the sunglasses. “That took you long enough, Matsumoto.”

Quickly scanning the barcode of the cigarettes, Takanori nodded apologetically. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before?”

“No harm done, I thought it was funny,” Takashima told him as Takanori bagged his purchases. He seemed very entertained by the whole ordeal. “You are right, though. I haven’t actually shopped here before.” Then he grinned, leaning forward until he was face to face with Takanori. Like he was staring, observing with blind eyes.

He clearly enjoyed how Takanori fought not to squirm under his sightless gaze, before moving away. He laughed as he paid, and Takanori could breathe again. “Just thought I’d say hi, that’s all,” Takashima said.

A little shaken, Takanori smiled back, but he found that somehow he didn’t mind Takashima’s sudden oddness, and he definitely didn’t mind how the grin broadened when he said back, “Hi, then.” 

Just like in the video, just like when he’d first talked to him, his smile seemed to light up the entire room, somehow making it even brighter than before. And in the corner of his eye, Takanori could see Ishida, half-hidden behind a shelf of cosmetics and _staring_. 

No other customers were lining up to pay, so they had time to talk a little. “Say, when do you get off work?”

There was an inviting tone to the question, one that was suggestive, and the implication was obvious. Takanori smirked, something brash and proud welling up in him at the situation. And Ishida was right there, watching Takanori talk to a porn star he had probably spent ages gawking at.

_You lose, sucker._

He made sure to return that interested tone when he answered, “I have two hours left, why?”

A soft chuckle. “Just wondering.” 

And then, Takashima Kouyou took his bag and left the store, just as a stranger heavily loaded with wares approached the register. Politely Takanori greeted the customer as he went back to doing his job, but a quick look to the side confirmed what Takanori suspected; Ishida had abandoned his post. Probably to go cry in the staff room.

It wasn’t until he clocked out that Takanori saw Ishida again. Even with the store’s size, the creep knew the interior well and had a talent for staying out of view. He had managed to avoid Takanori entirely for the remaining few hours, and it wasn’t until Takanori was putting his garish work apron away that Ishida reappeared, hovering nervously by the doorway.

Takanori didn’t spare him as much as a glance. If Ishida had something he wanted to say, then he could very well be out with it. And Ishida seemed to be aware of it for once, because he made his way over, fidgeting with his hands all the while. They were alone in the room.

“Did you...” Ishida’s voice was hushed when he spoke, and he glued his eyes to the floor. “Did you tell him?”

“About what, your threeway fantasy?” Takanori said as he fixed his jacket on properly. “No.”

Ishida murmured something incoherent in disappointment, but when he looked up again, a new hope was rekindled in his eyes. “Are you— are you planning to lure him in?”

“ _No_ ,” Takanori voiced sharply, “because _I_ am a decent human being, and I don’t plan on taking advantage of someone just so that _you_ can get your damn rocks off.”

“Then… then what? Why...” He was biting his lips, looking like an overgrown child about to cry over not getting what he wanted. At least he had the decency to be quiet about it.

“Because I ran into him the other day, and said hello. Sometimes people _talk_ to each other, Ishida. I know this may be a lot to take in, but — as a general rule, people don’t go creeping every day of their lives like you do. It’s deviant behavior. _Bad_ behavior. That’s the kinds of things that assholes do. Decent people — such as myself — _don’t._ ” Not being able to resist the hurt look on Ishida’s face, he rubbed it in a little more. “You’ve been bad,” he said, and gently slapped the side of Ishida’s head, just because he could, getting a soft whine like that of a reprimanded animal in response.

Ishida didn’t have anything to say, but quietly followed Takanori to the store exit, lingering by the door and longingly watching the tall figure approaching the two of them. Takanori couldn’t suppress a smile, seeing it. Ishida couldn’t bother them, as he still had a while left at work, and Takanori was glad to see pleasant company.

Takashima’s eyeless face mirrored his own, the diffused light from the overcast sky gentle on his face. “So you’re out.”

“You’re very observant.”

Takashima had probably gone home at some point, replaced his groceries — assuming alcohol could be called such — with a smaller bag that looked mostly empty. For Takanori, it felt so natural to be walking by him, Takashima keeping a slower pace to compensate for Takanori’s shorter legs as they walked side by side. He wasn’t sure why Takashima had decided to come back, but he was happy for it.

As if on cue, Takashima chose that moment to speak up. “Actually, I was wondering if you would like to grab a coffee with me? If you have time, of course.”

And Takanori smiled, simply feeling at ease. “I’d like that.”

 

Though he had partially expected to find himself back in Suzuki’s shop, Takashima had instead lead him in between tall buildings, to a tiny place that lay surprisingly close to the convenience store but was hidden away lest you knew where to find it. Despite having worked in the area for about a year, Takanori had never even known of this particular shop’s existence. 

While it was small, the shop had a cozy feel to it, the brightly lit interior mostly consisting of wood and brickwork. Gentle music was playing from a radio in the back with the volume low and the pleasant smell of coffee enveloped them as they entered.

“It’ll be my treat, since I invited you,” Takashima said beside him as Takanori looked through the menu, trying to decide. Takashima seemed to already know exactly what he wanted, having moved up to the counter where a homely, middle-aged woman was standing, ready to serve.

Or talk, it seemed.

“Kouyou! Welcome back, boy!”

Takanori paused. First name basis, was it?

“Ah, it’s good to see you too, Kato.”

“And you brought a new friend today?” The woman — Kato laughed, a deep rumble from low in her chest, before leaning her weight onto the counter, a friendly grin on her aging face. “So, what would you boys like to drink? The usual for you, yes? And your friend here would like…”

“Uh, latte, please,” Takanori said hurriedly, deciding to settle for something sweet and tearing his gaze away from the much pricier drink he had been eyeing, not wanting to be rude when Takashima would be the one paying for it. 

“Go sit down, you two, it’ll be just a moment.”

They took a seat by the window; the only people around was Kato and a young woman who was drawing while a slice of cake sat untouched on her table. 

As far as Takanori was concerned, though, it was just him and Takashima. “I never knew about this place,” he admitted as they waited, and Takashima nodded.

“Not many people do. It’s pretty out of sight, but Kato makes excellent coffee, and the place is very nice, so some people will go out of their way to come here,” Takashima explained. “Like… if you’ve been here once, you’ll want to come back. I frequent the place myself, you can probably tell.”

“I noticed she called you by your first name?”

He nodded. “I’ve spent so much time here anyway, so I thought why not? She’s very sweet, Kato. I like her. And well, same goes for you, actually.” 

Takanori was quite impressed by his own ability to keep his cool, even as Takashima smirked, voice taking a familiarly enticing note as he said, “I wouldn’t mind being on first name basis with _you_ , Takanori.”

Really, he was proud. He was even about to give a decent response when Kato came shuffling towards them, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of Takanori. “Latte for the newcomer,” she announced, and whatever Takanori had been meaning to say was lost to him; in the middle of the thick, white foam, a panda’s face was staring up at him, immaculately drawn. “And for Kouyou, the regular. Please enjoy.”

She left them, and Takanori looked up from the unexpected art in his drink, seeing the tall glass Takashima had been handed. He couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Irish coffee? Really?”

Takashima was already well on his way with pouring sugar onto his drink. “Nothing wrong with spicing life up a little, is there?” And then, softly this time, he said, “I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m… comfortable with first names. You seem like a good person, is all. I would like to know you better.”

Without really noticing, Takanori was playing with his right ear again, trying to not embarrass himself by acting like a giddy schoolgirl. But a good person he was very much not — Takanori was pretty sure he was the very scum of the earth by this point… he needed to get better at swallowing the inevitable guilt. _God, if only you knew how much of a dick I really am._

The image of blind boy was floating to the forefront of his mind, and with Takashima right in front of him… “No offense taken,” he said instead, stirring his latte, no doubt messing up the panda’s face. “I was just… surprised. But well, I probably wouldn’t mind getting to know you either, Kouyou.”

In his head, Takanori had to applaud himself at his own smoothness.

“Well then, Takanori... are you going to keep abusing the poor bear or drink your coffee?”

“I don’t know, Kouyou, isn’t it a bit too early for liquor?”

“Nonsense, it’s nearly five already. That’s a perfectly reasonable time to have a drink.” As if to prove his point, Kouyou raised his glass to take a sip, tongue darting out to lick the foam from his lips — “it’s just coffee, anyway.”

He watched on, half amused, half fascinated. “With alcohol. That shit would get me drunk so fast, man,” he murmured, tasting the latte. “This is really good.”

“Yes, like I said, Kato is good at what she does.”

“And this is what you get every time you come here?”

Smiling behind his glass, Kouyou nodded, “Pretty much.”

 

They stayed in the small coffee place for a long time; by the time they left, the sun was setting, painting the sky between the tall buildings around them deep shades of orange as the sky darkened. Takanori took a moment to stop and stare upwards to admire the view. He felt… content. The coffee had comfortably settled in his belly, his body warm from the pleasant locale of the coffee shop; he’d had good company, even though they hadn’t discussed anything of value, spending their time just chatting about whatever came to mind… in all, it had been pleasant.

Even if it was weird how they managed to talk for so long without really talking about anything at all. The only thing Takanori had learned about Kouyou thus far was that he lived nearby, seemed to have an endless amount of money to spend should he want something, and he struck a strange balance between being both extremely extrovert and not at all. And he was weirdly comfortable with first names. 

Maybe they should actually talk about themselves next time, assuming they would meet up again.

“We should do this again sometime,” Takanori suggested, but he didn’t get an answer. Looking over, he saw Kouyou shuffling through his bag. He stared as Kouyou pulled something out, then pushed it into Takanori’s hands.

“Hold that for me for a second,” he said. It was a glasses case; it felt empty. _Wait, is he going to_ — 

Looking on, puzzled, he watched Kouyou pull out another case from his bag only to pick out another pair of sunglasses from it, before discarding the case again. And then he took his glasses off.

Takanori held his breath; because there was blind boy’s entire face, _Kouyou’s_ face, his eyelids and brows and the bridge of his nose bared, and in that short moment everything was revealed before him — and Kouyou looked so... _naked_ without anything to cover up in the few seconds it took to open the second pair of sunglasses and slide them on.

His eyes had been squeezed shut all the while, and when he was done he looked… exactly the same. Just with different glasses. Takanori had to breathe again.

“Thanks,” Kouyou said shortly, plucking the case from Takanori’s hands and placing the first pair into them, before throwing it into the bag. He was himself again, and entirely oblivious to the startled expression Takanori couldn’t quite help himself from making. “And I agree, we really should.”

He knew he should have asked what the fuck just happened, but Takanori somehow couldn’t make out the words. Beside him Kouyou was acting as if nothing strange had happened, like he didn’t just trade his glasses for an identical pair seemingly for no reason whatsoever — if he was blind, why would he even want to take them off? Why put on a different pair? Were they just uncomfortable to wear for so long?

Even if he wanted to, Takanori hadn’t mentioned the glasses, not even once. When Kouyou eventually announced he had to leave and they parted ways, Takanori watched quietly how he walked away, completely sure of where he was going. In all the time Takanori had watched him, Kouyou hadn’t stumbled even once. For all the obstacles littering the street he had never run into as much as a single lamppost. Not even come close, even without a cane, a dog, or anything to aid him.

 _Was_ he even blind? If not, why did he wear the glasses? Why the mask when he was in his porn persona?

Takanori would have to ask about it tomorrow; Ishida might know.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first few hours, Takanori figured his coworker was just playing hide and seek with him again. When lunchtime rolled around, he wondered if maybe Ishida was hiding in the stockroom, but when he came back from the coffee shop and still no creep in sight, he begun to wonder if Ishida was sick. It wouldn’t surprise Takanori if that was the case; the universe did appear to hold a grudge against him lately.

But when the next day came, and still no Ishida, Takanori started to wonder if something had actually happened. It was strange to be at the store without the resident weirdo lurking about; he had worked there for much longer than Takanori had, after all, and it was weird to have him absent.

Even so, Takanori didn’t really care, though he was disappointed Ishida decided to disappear just when he actually wanted to talk to him. Kouyou, on the other hand, _did_ show up, timing strangely appropriate; Takanori was just out the door, on his way to get lunch when he spotted him, and Kouyou waved him over. Looking into those lensed eyes, he wondered, _why don’t you just ask him yourself? What do you need Ishida for?_

And honestly, he just… didn’t want to ask. Somehow such a simple question would be crossing a line he didn’t feel that he was ready for. Maybe Kouyou would be offended, or something, maybe he would get a hunch that Takanori _knew_ about the videos…

In hindsight, it was admittedly more suspicious that he hadn’t questioned it yet. And Kouyou was sitting opposite the table in the small coffee shop, so beautiful and full of life that Takanori couldn’t bring himself to ask, even if he really wanted to know.

But the days went by, and while he and Kouyou steadily grew closer into something resembling friendship, Ishida continued to be absent from work. When Takanori finally decided to swallow his pride and approached the candy aisle where Fujita was working to ask where he was, she just scowled at him.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I mean it. I haven’t seen him all week. Is he that sick?”

“Sick?” Her hands paused in their work, and there was something small and angry in her eyes when she looked back at him. “We all know Ishida’s not really right in the head, but you don’t need to go and call him _sick_ , Matsumoto.”

He held his hands up defensively. “Hey hey, calm down, all I want to know is why he’s not here...”

And then Fujita laughed, short and sarcastically. “Ishida isn’t coming back to work, because he _quit_. I thought you knew.”

Whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. “He quit? What, why?”

“Why?” She scoffed. “ _Why?_ Because of you, you dimwit, because you were his closest friend in this place and you decided to abuse him. You’re lucky I like you, else I woulda filed a complaint and got the boss on your ass.”

“I didn’t—”

“You _hit_ him on Monday. I saw.”

“It was as a joke! And it’s not like it was hard,” Takanori muttered defensively, “Besides, he’s a man, he can take a hit.”

This time Fujita didn’t answer him, though she was using a bit more force than necessary as she shelved away boxes of candy. If it wasn’t for the information slowly settling in his brain, it would have been amusing to watch. Takanori sighed; clearly he wouldn’t get much more out of her. “Here you say that you like me, but you sure have never acted like it. I’m pretty sure you prefer Ishida over me by this point, Fujita…”

It was only then that she turned back to him, scowl somehow deepening on her otherwise pretty face. “My name is _Fujimoto_.”

 

“My colleague quit.”

Kouyou paused in where he was nibbling on a muffin, pulling it away from his mouth, slowly chewing. “Who, the creepy one?” 

Takanori nodded pointlessly, stirring his coffee. Regular, as he was paying for it himself, though he’d added heavy doses of cream and sugar. “Yeah, that’s the one. I didn’t even know a few hours ago, but apparently he called in sick on Tuesday and then quit yesterday.” 

Kouyou was pursing his lips in thought. “And all without telling you about it. I see. Do you know why?”

“No clue. Just up and left suddenly.”

“Maybe he had some personal business or something,” Kouyou murmured, his usual tall glass of Irish coffee situated elegantly in slender fingers. “But from what you’ve told me about him, it probably won’t be a huge loss anyway.”

“I agree… but it’s just weird, I guess. And another co-worker is blaming me for him leaving.”

“Oh?”

“I yelled on him a little on Monday, I guess. Ishida totally deserved it though. Was being creepy again.”

Kouyou just looked amused. “Of course… say, this little fight of yours didn’t have anything to do with me, did it?”

“Uh…” Unsure of what to say, Takanori played with his earring again. He had only told Kouyou so much about Ishida so far, but they were both aware of Ishida’s obsession. The reasoning behind it would remain a secret, though. “It’s pretty obvious that it did, huh?”

A nod around a sip of liqueur coffee. “Little bit.”

“Well, then you probably should know. The story goes that Ishida basically… asked me to talk to you for him. And when I told him no, he got upset, asked me again, and it started pissing me off, so I told him to suck it up.”

“And now he’s gone.”

“Yeah, now he’s gone.”

“I guess he couldn’t suck it up after all, then.” Kouyou was grinning, like it was the funniest thing in the world. “I guess there’s no reason for me to hang around in the park anymore, then. What’s the point if he’s gone?”

Takanori sniggered, feigning hurt. “But what about _me_?”

“Well, of course! I suppose I should thank you for protecting my virtue?”

There was a suggestive hint in his tone as he said it, and Takanori settled for chuckling smoothly. “And how would you go about that?”

“How about... I invite you over to my place this weekend...?” And that was so unexpected that Takanori’s mouth fell open just slightly, the thought of being invited _home_ to Kouyou holding so many implications that he wasn’t sure where to begin to even think, but then Kouyou continued, “It’s my birthday this Sunday.”

He seemed to notice Takanori’s surprised state, softening a little. ”You don’t need to come, but it would be nice if you did... it won’t be a huge party or anything. You don’t even need to worry about anyone else, it’d just be us two. I was gonna go out with some friends, but they had to cancel on me, so…”

“I would love to come, don’t worry about it.” Him and Kouyou, alone in Kouyou’s apartment… Takanori had to mentally kick himself for the images his mind was conjuring up. But it was a little awkward how even after almost a week, he truly knew nothing about his new friend. “How old are you turning?”

“Twenty one.”

So they were the same age after all; Takanori had to sit back in his seat a little, a strange sense of relief spreading through him. “I guess I really should have asked you earlier, huh? I’m twenty, myself…”

“It _is_ funny that we’ve talked so much yet don’t even know the basics about each other, yeah,” Kouyou said, as if he knew exactly what was going on in Takanori’s mind. “But that’s great, if you want to join me. You don’t need to bring anything, by the way.”

“But it would be nice if I did, right?”

Kouyou smiled. “It would be nice.”

Kato waved goodbye when they left, the heavy sun beating down on them as they returned to the convenience store. They would meet up on Sunday, and Kouyou would show him where he lived. Apparently, he didn’t trust Takanori to find the way himself.

Though he felt like he should probably be slightly insulted by his new friend’s lack of faith in him, Takanori didn’t mind. He was already excited, and curious as to how Kouyou lived — he had an apartment, sure, but what did it look like? Was it small and cramped like Suzuki’s place? And even if he had said there wouldn’t be anyone else there, did he have a roommate?

Even as Fujimoto showed him the cold shoulder the entire rest of the day, Ishida’s departure was long forgotten; Takanori’s mind was elsewhere, excited and wondering how Sunday would go. He only had a few days to go through to get there. It was Thursday. His father would be coming home at some point today; it had been nice being able to be away from that disapproving glare for as long as Takanori had. Time to start locking himself in his room again, he supposed.

True enough, upon returning to his parents' apartment, Takanori found them at the dining table, apparently just having finished eating. It smelled good, like a proper home-cooked meal, rather than something from a freezer disk. Something with love and time poured into it, instead of being heated in an oven for ten minutes. Figuring he may as well say hi, and maybe get some food while he was at it, Takanori approached them. 

Seemed his father had enjoyed their distance too; he looked at ease, no displeased frown in sight — it made him feel slightly braver. “Hey, dad,” Takanori said, glancing over to the empty bowls that used to contain dinner. Nothing left for him, it seemed. “How was the trip?”

It wasn’t much later that he would come to regret asking, sitting with his little family as his father went on about his work and when he inevitably asked _so Takanori, when are you going to start studying for a proper job?_ Takanori knew it was time to excuse himself and flee to his room. That was a conversation he never had been able to stomach; usually it would escalate into uncomfortable arguments concerning Takanori’s future, to which he would defend himself by getting angry and blaming his parents for refusing to let him do as he wanted with his own life, and then there would be more yelling… but for as much as Takanori hated living with his parents, at least he had a roof over his head.

The shit pay at his job was leagues away from being enough to afford to rent his own place, anyway. 

At least Friday was close, Takanori figured, getting his phone out and texting Suzuki, _are we up for tomorrow?_ before returning to his laptop. He was expecting a quick reply — Akira usually answered his texts within minutes, but when an hour had passed and still nothing, he sent another text just in case.

Still nothing. He was probably busy, then. Sure enough; just as evening was turning to night his phone buzzed, Akira’s long-awaited answer finally arrived. And an apology. _Sorry man, super swamped right now._

And while Takanori usually would be disappointed to find himself rejected from his monthly drinking party, to the point that he’d stay moping in his room the entirety of the weekend (and throughout the week, if it was really bad) — this time he just shrugged it off, because while Akira couldn’t meet him, there was still Kouyou. Even if he had to survive a few days in an apartment while his father was around. It wasn’t like it was that hard, really... it was all too easy for them all to fall into the same old routines. Takanori’s father always stuck by the same schedule — get up, work, go home, ignore Takanori and go to bed; his mother was similar, though she went to sleep earlier. As for Takanori himself, well…

It didn’t take very long for him to fall back, either, sketchbook open before him as he carefully sketched a paused frame from one of Ishida’s videos. The nagging thought of _what the fuck are you doing, you’re seeing Kouyou again soon_ was still there, but he had choked it in favour for art. Despite the new book he had bought and brought everywhere, it had remained mostly unused because it simply wasn’t as interesting to draw when it wasn’t Kouyou or blind boy he was trying to picture. 

Honestly, he was starting to miss Ishida. Or more specifically, the daily videos; Takanori could only watch the same over and over so much before he’d exhausted his supply. He had even sent a mail to Ishida asking why he’d quit and where he’d gone off to, but unsurprisingly Ishida never replied. Which was unfortunate, really; even now, Takanori really wanted to see more.

_So why don’t you just go find it?_

Slowly he put the pencil down. Yeah, actually, why not? Ishida’s first mail was still there, the link to the first video on the dark web still there... and after a year spent wasting away time on the internet, Takanori had gotten pretty good at navigating the web. There was nothing actually holding him back from finding more himself...

Apart from his nagging conscience, maybe. 

Takanori hadn’t actually watched that first video again since that first weekend — though it was beautiful, it was uninteresting compared to everything else he had been sent, and since he never got the file itself he hadn’t really bothered. Seeing it again, Takanori found himself strangely in awe. It was so obvious now that it was Kouyou, that it had to be him… even if he looked younger, his face softer, body slightly smaller, skinnier than his slender figure was now.

If Kouyou was turning twenty one, how old was he in the videos? 

They couldn’t be that old, Takanori figured, a few years at most. Hell, for all he knew they were still being made and he just hadn’t seen anything recent. It was the curiosity and craving for more that left Takanori cautiously scrolling through the dark web, searching for more of Kouyou, more of blind boy… there was so much shit to dodge and he _knew_ it, knew it from all the creepy shit Ishida had linked to and sent him in the past, stuff that made Takanori entirely justified in calling Ishida a fucking maniac in his head. 

But Takanori was cautious. He knew exactly what he was looking for, had learned what to stay away from while browsing the fetish section of several file sharing forums, he was aware of what was completely and utterly _illegal_ , which things would probably get him arrested immediately just from looking at it even with his carefully set up safety measures. Or at least feel like he needed to call the cops on himself.

But a few hours in he was beginning to curse out the persona’s name, the word ‘boy’ turning up way too many uncomfortable results. It didn’t take much longer before Takanori was considering giving up — there was only so much he could stomach — when he fell upon a forum post. The original post dated back two years and was nearly empty, just the single page with a few comments… and there were pictures.

It was a younger version of Kouyou’s face that stared back at him, a Kouyou with lanky shoulders and pallid skin, blindfold gone and eyes shut as the light from a small lamp illuminated him in an otherwise dark room. A choker clung to his neck, connected to a rope that pulled towards the camera. 

More pictures followed — scenes from videos Ishida had sent, some in a similar setting to the first photo, and the last… the last was blind boy, lying face down on white sheets, arms spread wide like skinny wings as his dark hair trailed a halo around his head and down his back. His skin was covered in art; down his entire body were pictures, finely drawn images that interconnected like beautifully crafted tattoos, covering the whole of his body.

For all he knew it was cliché, Takanori couldn’t help but think that like that, Kouyou looked like some sort of angel, one that was cast out of heaven only to crash land in somebody’s bed...

… there was a small part of him hoped that one day, maybe that bed would be his.


	7. Chapter 7

The alarm hadn’t even had time to go off when Takanori got out of bed. It still had another ten minutes to tick away before it would start belting out loud rock music to wake him, and then he had a few hours to shower and get ready to meet Kouyou. Not to say he was an early riser, though; it was almost eleven. Sundays were sacred, after all.

It was going to be a good day. He had it all planned out in his head; get ready, leave and bring that stolen bottle of wine for Kouyou’s birthday present, play it smooth the entire day, maybe even the night if Takanori played his cards right. He had decided that it was on high time they started actually getting to know each other, rather than just small talking bullshit and joking around like they had so far; he’d ask about family, hobbies, the whole nine yards… and then, when Kouyou didn’t suspect anything, sneak in a question about the sunglasses.

He had to word himself carefully, however, lest Kouyou ask him back and come to realize how much of a shut-in Takanori really was. It was a dangerous game.

Stepping out of the shower, Takanori stared at his reflection in his parents' large bathroom mirror. The way the black hair stuck to his neck made him look like a wet dog. He lifted a limp, wet lock of hair, scrutinizing himself. God, he looked so normal, so… boring. 

_Boring_ had never been a good look on him. 

While he couldn’t get away with dying his hair, maybe he could use the two-man birthday party as an excuse to dress up nice… Kouyou might not be able to see, but it would definitely fuel Takanori’s confidence if he went knowing he looked good.

With that settled, Takanori started getting dressed, drying his hair and throwing on a well-loved band tee he was particularly proud that he owned, and his best pair of jeans. A fancily oversized red plaid cardigan would complete his outfit; it was a simultaneously nice and casual look.

But even so, as he was styling his hair, Takanori wondered if maybe he couldn’t do better... he fiddled his earrings a little. Maybe it was time he took use of the nice jewelry he still had lying around, but didn’t get to use because of his job…

On that thought, Takanori returned to his room, rummaging through his drawer of junk. He had left it there, his box of jewelry, abandoned to collect dust because he hadn’t really had opportunity to wear them in the past year anyway. But Takanori had missed it. Before the move, rings and necklaces used to be key elements in his outfits.

Not to mention the earrings. Picking up a large, skull-shaped gauge ring from the box, Takanori studied it; he used to wear it constantly, before. These days he only wore a plain ring in his ear to keep the gauged lobe from closing. It had a function, but was otherwise dull.

He found it interesting how Kouyou made him want to actually do things again. Get dressed up for the weekend, draw, explore mazes of alleyways to find hidden gems of shops few knew even existed… if it hadn’t been for their meeting, Takanori would likely not have done it at all. There hadn’t been a single time he had dressed up nice to meet with Suzuki. 

The fact that Suzuki was straight was entirely irrelevant.

Earrings added, he found his old rings and a necklace as well, heavy jewelry with iron crosses and skulls on them, things that were well loved then regretfully abandoned. When he returned to the bathroom to make final adjustments and study himself, Takanori couldn’t help himself from smiling because he looked so _good._

He added a small amount of eyeliner, just because he could, before returning to his room to start sorting out the stuff in his bag. Did he have everything he needed? There was the wallet and phone, the stolen wine bottle… he didn’t really _need_ anything else, Takanori knew, but…

Eyes darting to the desk where his sketchpads sat, he considered his options. He wasn’t dumb enough to bring _that_ over, but there was the train ride, and maybe he would have to wait around for Kouyou… might as well spend some time doodling, Takanori thought as he stuffed his newer, guilt-free sketchbook into his bag.

A lazy breakfast later and Takanori was set and ready to go, but for all his careful planning he did not escape entirely unscratched. 

“Where are you going?”

Internally cursing, he paused where he stood in the hallway, hand hovering above the door handle. He didn’t turn around to face his father; Takanori knew better than let him see the complete getup. “A friend’s place.”

“A _friend_. Uh huh,” he didn’t sound convinced. “Dressed like that?”

“Yes, dad, a friend.” When he was rewarded with an indignant snort, he knew he had failed to convince and it was time to leave before the talk started. “Gotta go, can’t be late. See you,” and then Takanori was out the door before his father could get time to respond.

Good mood spoiled, Takanori hurried down the stairs of the apartment complex. He had hoped that he’d luck it out and avoid bumping into his father. When Takanori said friend, his father would immediately jump to the conclusion that he was referring to Suzuki — which was usually the case, because Akira was the only person he really considered a friend and regularly hung out with, anyway — and the thought of Takanori hanging out with Suzuki made his father’s blood boil. Which was ridiculous; if one were to ask his mother instead, Suzuki truly appeared to be the perfect specimen, with his job and car and engineer studies...

Takanori knew why, of course.

Sitting down to wait, Takanori decided to get a few minutes of drawing done to make time pass. It didn’t take very long before Kouyou approached him in the park by the convenience store, sauntering towards the bench Takanori sat on like he owned the place. He looked good today, Takanori noticed, tight-fit jeans and a tank top that clung to his thin frame. Even the rings on his fingers looked fancier than the ones he usually wore. Seemed Takanori wasn’t the only one who had decided to dress up for the occasion.

“Hey you,” Takanori greeted once they were close enough to talk, and he noticed the way Kouyou smiled at the sound of his voice. “Happy birthday.”

As it turned out, Kouyou didn’t live far from Takanori’s workplace at all — his place was only a ten-minute walk away in the direction of the tiny coffee shop, in a relatively small and inconspicuous apartment block that lay surrounded mostly by office buildings. 

“My flat’s on the second floor,” Kouyou told him as they ascended the stairs, his stride certain as if he had memorized exactly where the steps begun and ended. “It’s the first door on the right—”

“Ah, Kouyou!”

Whatever he was about to say died in his throat as a young woman came running towards them, from what was presumably Kouyou’s apartment door. She was dressed well, Takanori noted appreciatively, punk-style clothing not unlike his own, as well as dark stockings and a long, pleated skirt. She was pretty.

Even so, Takanori didn’t fail to notice the way Kouyou had frozen up next to him, but he was almost startled when Kouyou spoke, voice colder than Takanori had ever heard it, “I told you not to come here.”

She didn’t seem to care. “But it’s your birthday! I wanted to congratulate you, and—”

“I already said no,” Kouyou interrupted, pulling a key out of his pocket. He turned back to Takanori, looking apologetic as he handed over the key. “Sorry about this. You just head on inside, yeah? This’ll only take a minute.”

Takanori nodded awkwardly, ignoring the way the girl was watching him as he let himself in. He heard her voice, “New friend? Really, Kouyou?” The rest became muffled as the door closed behind him. He listened in for a few seconds, hearing Kouyou talking to her, sounding somewhat agitated, before Takanori figured that there was no point to eavesdrop — whatever was going on, it was none of his business. It wasn’t like he could make out the words anyway... she was probably an ex-girlfriend, or something.

Flicking the lights on, Takanori took in the living room of Kouyou’s apartment — like he had suspected, it was relatively small, though it was larger than Akira’s place. There was a door that presumably lead to the bathroom, another door open through which he could see a large, messy bed. One corner served as a kitchen area. A loveseat stood in the middle of the room; in front of it, a table and a television set that was connected to several gaming consoles. A rather impressive stack of video games was situated on the floor, next to the TV, a significantly smaller pile of books and magazines on the other side.

Perhaps he did have a flatmate.

A few moments later Kouyou entered. “Sorry about that,” he said, taking his shoes off, before making his way to the loveseat where Takanori had made himself comfortable while waiting. He carelessly slung something onto the table — something small, square and neatly wrapped. The present from the girl.

“What was that about?”

“Eh, it’s nothing. Just someone who wanted something,” Kouyou muttered, then stood up again, moving behind the sofa. Takanori watched quietly as he went over to the single window, turning the blinds to allow some sunlight into the room. “Mind if I turn the off lights?”

“... sure, but why?”

“The lamps are too bright. I usually leave them off.”

When the switch flicked off, the room was bathed in a strangely comfortable half-dark; they were facing away from the window, sun shining on the back of their heads as Kouyou returned to the loveseat. He’d brought his bag, glasses case back in his hands as he slid his sunglasses off his face. He combed his hair back with a hand, sighing contentedly. Takanori was staring, and he knew it, original plans long forgotten as he finally said, “Mind if I ask you something?”

Kouyou turned dark eyes to him; it was too dim to properly see them, but Takanori knew they were looking straight at him.

“... why do you wear sunglasses everywhere?”

When he said it, he realized just how stupid he had been as Kouyou stared him down, eyes anything but unseeing, fully aware of how ridiculous Takanori had been to keep quiet for so long. _Not blind. He’s not blind._ But for much as Takanori’s mind was razing, Kouyou seemed entirely relaxed, his face and eyes and lips gentle where he sat, so close to Takanori that their legs were pressing against each other. 

“I have sensitive eyes.”

Takanori was an idiot; so much for being smooth. “Oh.”

But Kouyou took it in stride. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

“Well,” Takanori murmured defensively, “Guess I figured I wouldn’t need to?”

“It’s fine. Most people assume stupid shit, like I’m blind, or something… ridiculous, right?” He leaned back in the plush seat, crossing his arms. “It’s obvious that I’m not! I don’t even have a cane, I’d be running into things all the time.”

Wasn’t that amazing. “Ishida thought you were.”

Kouyou shook his head incredulously. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Oh well, now that that’s out of the way,” Takanori said, shifting the topic away from his own embarrassment and lifting his bag onto his lap. “Let’s not talk about Ishida today. He’s gone anyway, and…” Kouyou was watching in interest the way he was intentionally making a show of digging through his bag, even as there was nearly nothing in it. Dramatically he lifted out the wine bottle, “... it’s your birthday! I brought you a gift.”

“I said you didn’t have to,” Kouyou gasped, that joking tone back in his voice, playing along. He brought it to his face, inspecting the label. It was a pretty fancy wine. “This is really nice, wow. Thank you.”

As much as Takanori felt stupid, he was glad, really; Kouyou being able to see made everything so much easier, even if it opened up for so many other questions that he knew he would probably never get to ask. 

It didn’t take long for the bottle to be opened and a glass brought for each of them, Kouyou seeming very happy about his present as he poured himself a second glass of wine, swirling it elegantly — Takanori had only taken a sip himself; it was good. His parents had a taste for quality when it came to alcohol. He had quickly decided he rather liked Kouyou’s place, vastly more so than his own. Even more so when he learned that as it turned out, Kouyou lived alone — how he could afford the rent was a mystery so far. 

“So you know I work at the store, but what about you?” Takanori asked, just as Kouyou was taking another drink, eyes closed. Something metallic glinted in his ear, behind his hair.

For a moment Kouyou went silent. “Ah, I don’t really work,” he admitted, pursing his lips. “I do some… odd jobs here and there, but I don’t have an actual job, I’m afraid.”

“This place looks like it would be pretty expensive.”

“And I live here by myself, yeah. Well… my family helps out with rent.”

He did seem like someone who enjoyed living well, Takanori thought. If he didn’t need a job, Kouyou was probably something of a spoiled brat… his family that paid the rent, he had dozens of video games and the few times he had been in the store, Kouyou went for the most expensive brands regardless of what he was buying. Which were usually luxury items. And alcohol.

Despite his age, Kouyou was quite a heavy drinker, that much was obvious. It was one of the first things Takanori had noticed, and he wondered just how strong Kouyou’s tolerance was as they sat there, half the bottle drained after only a few hours. Takanori got drunk easily and had barely touched his glass, but even though he drank wine like it was water, Kouyou barely seemed like it had affected him so far.

“I guess you get a pretty hefty allowance, eh?” Takanori joked. “No offense, I’m not any better anyway. I still live with my parents...”

But Kouyou was quiet, lips pressed against the glass, dark eyes lidded when he said, seemingly out of nowhere, “Hey, do you follow the news?”

And Takanori shook his head, “Not really,” he said, failing to see how it was relevant to anything they had discussed so far. “World’s always going to shit, so never really interested me a whole lot. Why? Anything going on?”

No explanation came. “Just wondering. I see you brought a book with you?”

“Uh—” he had to sit back, keeping deathly still as Kouyou suddenly leaned across his body, reaching into the bag between his feet to deftly pull out the sketchbook. 

“Ooh, you draw? I didn’t know,” Kouyou cooed, “do you mind if I look?”

“... sure, there’s barely anything in it, though,” Takanori muttered, somewhat embarrassed by Kouyou’s actions. It wasn’t like he had really drawn anything there anyway — a few vulgar doodles, the view from his bedroom window, a sketch of a woman who’d fallen asleep on the train… he wondered how Kouyou could even see anything in the dim light.

“These are really nice,” Kouyou said as he looked through what little there was to see. Then he grinned, page open on the messy depiction of a cursing, naked, undead man on fire. “I like the burning zombie.”

Takanori had to keep himself from coughing, feeling strangely uneasy. “Thanks.”

“There really isn’t much here, but I can tell you’re good… is this new?” He flipped the book shut, putting it on Takanori’s lap. Takanori sighed, picking the book back up, flicking through it. Doodles, sketches, then dozen upon dozen of empty pages. 

“It is, but… I don’t really draw a whole lot anymore. Haven’t really had much inspiration.”

“That’s too bad…”

The words came out of his mouth before Takanori even knew that they had formed. “I could draw you, if you like.” And there was the need to cough again, as he realized what he’d just said. “I mean, if you want. You look like you’d be a good model.”

 _Fucking idiot you are_ , Takanori’s mind scolded, _you’ve drawn him so many times as blind boy, and now you want to draw him here too? What if he realizes how familiar you are with his face and finds out? What if..._ But this was Kouyou, not blind boy — Kouyou wasn’t even blind, and Takanori had never drawn his whole face before, had barely _seen_ it. This would be different… like he was studying him from a whole new angle. And Kouyou seemed interested enough, putting his glass down on the table, a slight smile gracing his face as he said, “Sure, why not.”

Drawing Kouyou’s bare face was interesting, Takanori quickly learned. The stills of blind boy was one thing, but with the real deal right in front of him, no sunglasses or blindfolds impeding his view, he could see so much more than he’d ever noticed before. Even if drawing in poor lighting was a challenge, and Takanori wished he could turn the lights back on, but he knew that if he did Kouyou would put the glasses on, or close his eyes… and his eyes were beautiful.

He was glad he had suggested this, now; it gave Takanori an excuse to stare, to study those eyes, study _all_ of Kouyou while his pencil carefully left graphite on the blank page of paper. There was so much more to see than he’d ever noticed before. The little freckles dotting his face and neck here and there, the many piercings in his ears, the shape of his brows…

“It’s a good likeness,” Kouyou said approvingly when he decided he’d finished. The sketch was still rough, but it was so clearly _Kouyou_ , and it made him want to sit down and draw him again and again and again…

But instead he put his pencil down, took another sip of the wine and smiled. “I was right, you do make for a good model.”

When Takanori went home it was growing dark, and there was a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that wasn’t from the wine he had consumed. Despite the mess he’d made of himself, Takanori had accomplished his goals. Kouyou had two sisters, no job, he played video games and drank… the sunglasses were due to his overly light-sensitive eyes. Both his ears were pierced and he had a mole on his throat, and Takanori had a drawing of Kouyou, of his friend, barefaced and joyful and twenty one years old; a far cry from the blind persona he had drawn until now.


	8. Chapter 8

When Kouyou didn’t come by for lunch on Monday, Takanori figured he was probably taking some time off to recover from a hangover, or something. He didn’t usually come around in the middle of the week, so it wasn’t until Thursday that he saw Kouyou again, entering the coffee shop just as Takanori was taking a seat with his drink in their usual spot by the window.

Upon seeing Takanori, Kouyou smiled — Takanori had spent the past few days getting used to thinking of Kouyou as being able to _see_ , after thinking he was blind for so long — a few quick words over the counter to Kato and he was crossing the short distance between them, pulling out a chair.

“Hello there, stranger.”

“It’s only been a few days and you’ve already forgotten about me?” Takanori said. Kouyou snickered in amusement, sitting down. “That’s hurtful.”

“If I knew my absence was so hard on you, I’d try to stop by more often.”

Shrugging off the melodramatic display, Takanori grinned, stirring his coffee. “I wouldn’t mind that. How have you been?”

“Busy. Had some stuff to do here and there, and my mom decided to visit...” he exhaled loudly, propping his head up on his hand. “But now I’m free again. And my apartment is clean.”

There was a suggestive smirk on his face as he said it, and Takanori chuckled. “Are you implying something?”

“I don’t know. Does it seem like I am?” Then the coy look was gone, replaced by something kinder, gentler. “Actually, I was meaning to ask, did you have a good time on Sunday? We didn’t really do a whole lot, but...” he trailed off.

“It was nice,” Takanori assured him, watching as Kouyou’s shoulders relaxed in relief. “I wouldn’t mind coming again sometime.”

“That’s great, because I was wondering—” he interrupted himself as Kato came over, setting down the usual tall glass Irish coffee. “Ah, thank you… if you wanted to come over again, one of these days?”

“Of course,” Takanori said, jokingly adding, “besides, you need to make up for forgetting about me so quickly.”

“Of course,” Kouyou repeated teasingly, tearing open a packet of brown sugar for his coffee. “Anything to make my poor Taka feel like he’s loved.”

Takanori flipped him off. “Don’t bastardize my name. What day did you have in mind?”

 

As it turned out, Kouyou was not free on Friday, but he was available the entire weekend, which suited Takanori just fine. Nothing happened on weekends as far as he was concerned, apart from a few mishaps at Akira’s place, maybe. 

He was disappointed to see that Suzuki was still occupied this week. Part of Takanori was beginning to miss him and their monthly antics, even if he had Kouyou to hang with now, and was less at risk from slipping into insanity from solitude. But he was still a little pissed when Friday came, and he hadn’t heard a single word. Akira would usually leave a message if he was busy, at the very least, but there was nothing. 

Takanori was beginning to feel like Akira had forgotten him, and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was neglect. He hated being ignored. It was with that in mind that when lunch times arrived, Takanori headed out Akira’s coffee shop to grab something to eat, instead of Kouyou’s, knowing that Akira would be working that day. It took a few moments before Akira noticed him, too busy working to look up as the line of customers was rather lengthy. He looked stressed.

Their conversation was brief, but efficient; Akira explained he hadn’t had time to contact Takanori because of an important assignment, one that was absolutely vital to his studies, and between work and school, there simply had been no time. “In a few weeks, yeah? I’ll make it up to you,” he promised as he handed over Takanori’s purchase, before moving on to the next person in line.

And Akira wasn’t one to break promises. He was too good for that.

Come Saturday, Takanori went to Kouyou’s place. He must have arrived earlier than expected, because when Kouyou came to open the door he was dressed in an oversized tee and loose slacks, looking like he barely had gotten time to wake.

He still let Takanori in, apologizing for his messy state before disappearing into his bedroom; a few minutes later he appeared again, slacks swapped for a pair of leggings and hair brushed, though the shirt was still in place. The blinds were just open enough for the sun to bathe the room in mellow light, and Kouyou slung himself down next to Takanori on the loveseat. “So can I get you anything to drink?”

“... it’s only noon.”

Kouyou scoffed. “Well, excuse me for trying to be a good host. I have more than just alcohol, you know,” he said, getting up and moving to his fridge. Curiously Takanori followed, wanting to see what he had. “Actually, I’m almost out, so you can’t have any. Had to get rid of it before my mom came over… you want some coke?”

There wasn’t a lot in the fridge, Takanori noticed, peeking in. Some juice, what looked like a few boxes of leftovers, a couple bottles of soda. “Juice, thanks.”

Not long after they were settled back on the sofa, Kouyou with a glass of coke, Takanori with orange juice. Kouyou was twirling his glass about absentmindedly. “Hey, tell me something. What do you do when you’re not working? Any hobbies, other than art?”

“Um, not really.” _Don’t make a fool out of yourself, Takanori._ “I spend most of my time on the web… I watch things, like movies, TV shows. I read and listen to music a lot, look at art… that kind of thing. Had to find something to spend my time doing.” Kouyou hummed quietly, looking somewhat bored. “What about you? You game a lot, that much is obvious, but what else?”

Takanori didn’t miss the way Kouyou chewed on his lip for a second, before replying. “No, I’m pretty much the same as you. I just go out instead, whenever I get bored.”

“So no studies.”

“No, I dropped out.”

“So you went to college?”

“Of high school.”

“… I see,” Takanori said after a short moment of silence. “Was there a particular reason…? I won’t pry, if you don’t want me to,” he quickly added.

“It’s not an interesting one, trust me.” Kouyou smiled then, but tightly; there must have been something more to the story, but Takanori knew better than to ask again. “We really are the most boring people on this earth, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Takanori said, but he didn’t agree. Because as boring as Takanori himself was, Kouyou was _different_. He was _interesting_ , he had secrets; he was blind boy, he was a high school dropout… someone who left school and decided to pursue a career as an adult actor. 

There was nothing boring about that.

After a while Kouyou suggested they put on a movie, and Takanori wasn’t surprised to see how dim the television was, light setting pushed almost to the very minimum. It had to be a heavy strain on Kouyou’s sensitive eyes.

“I can turn it up, if you want,” Kouyou offered, hand already halfway on its way to grab a pair of sunglasses from his table, but Takanori shook his head, grabbing Kouyou’s outstretched wrist to pull him back to the sofa.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Maybe he had to squint slightly to catch everything that happened, sure, but that wasn’t a big problem. His friend shouldn’t have to suffer for it.

… but Kouyou was staring, an amused look on his face, and Takanori let go of his wrist.

“... is there something on my face?”

“You’re so considerate, Taka.”

“No, I’m not,” Takanori huffed, but it was obvious his dismay wasn’t genuine, fake frown cracking at the seams. “Don’t bastardize my name.”

 

It got late.

“I should probably go home at some point,” Takanori said, looking through the blinds, out towards the nightscape of the city. Every part of him wanted to stay, but he was getting tired. In the kitchen, Kouyou made an affirming sound as he threw away empty boxes of takeaway and beer cans.

“Doing anything tomorrow?”

Closing the blinds, he pulled away, turning to face Kouyou and being met with the dark lenses of the sunglasses. After the sun went down it had become too dark for Takanori, so Kouyou had turned the lights back on. “Not really.”

“Then why do you need to leave?”

It was a fair point, really. All he needed was sleep, and there was nothing at home he lacked… apart from night clothes. 

Takanori didn’t miss the cheeky smirk on Kouyou’s face, but blamed it on the alcohol. “Are you suggesting a sleepover?”

“Sure, why not? It saves you the trouble, not like I have anything planned for tomorrow anyway.”

Takanori glanced over to the loveseat, considering — it was pretty tiny. And while he was a far cry from Kouyou’s height, he was nowhere near short enough to stretch out comfortably if he were to lie down. “I appreciate the offer, but…”

Behind the glasses, Kouyou followed his gaze. “The sofa is too small to sleep on, yeah I know. Follow me.” He turned; walking towards the second door, the one that Takanori knew led to a bedroom, he flicked on the lights. The room was simple enough — just wide enough for a rather large Western bed and a tiny nightstand. There was a dresser in one corner by the door, a tall closet in the other corner and stacks of boxes that stood shoved against the wall. 

“My bed is more than big enough for two,” Kouyou said, as if suggesting the two of them sleep so close was a _good_ idea, as if there was no problem with _sleeping together_ —

Takanori wondered if he was going to have an aneurysm just thinking about it. He had been expecting a spare futon, not _this_. “What, sharing a bed?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it just seems—” he cut himself off before he could manage to say something stupid. “Weird. It just seems weird.”

Kouyou was not convinced. “What’s the big deal? It’s only weird if you make it weird. Sorry I don’t have any other options, unless you want to sleep on the floor, or take the couch. Which is really small.” _Or go back home_. Takanori had been playing with his ear again, but now he was gripping his skull earring so hard that it was starting to hurt.

“... I’ll take the sofa. Thanks, though.”

“Well,” Kouyou said, still skeptical, “It’s your funeral. But you’re welcome to come join me if you change your mind.” 

Takanori pressed his lips together, his friend’s poor choice of words generating pictures in his head. Really, really bad images, of bare arms and legs and blindfolds and a hundred drawings littering pale skin… the sunglasses weren’t helping, not when they obscured Kouyou’s face like that. _Don’t be a fucking idiot, Takanori. He’s right in front of you._

Hopefully it was just the fact that Kouyou had drained four cans of beer on his own that made him say those things. Takanori had to force himself to not look away. “Sure, whatever,” he dismissed, hoping that Kouyou hadn’t noticed. “Do you have any clothes I can borrow to sleep in?”

Thankfully Kouyou didn’t seem perturbed. “You can get something to wear yourself. I’m gonna go brush my teeth.” He pointed to the dresser in the corner. “Just take anything you find.”

Looking through Kouyou’s clothes was… interesting. The tall closet wouldn’t open, its doors locked firmly shut, but the wardrobe was free for him to rummage through. When Takanori pulled out one of the drawers, he came face to face with some neatly folded shirts — tank tops and fancy tees, mostly — but when he lifted them out in search for something appropriate for bed, he found clothes carelessly slung into the back of the dresser. 

Curious, Takanori picked one up, smoothing out the wrinkles; it was a band tee, old and worn, the print faint and faded with time. Unable to help himself he made a small, excited noise, recognizing the design. He knew the band well — hell, Takanori had worn one of their tees on Kouyou’s birthday. It was odd that Kouyou hadn’t commented upon it, but it did seem they shared a similar taste in music.

Interest piqued, Takanori picked up another of the wrinkled shirts — though this one was plain, the fabric thick and soft, no pattern or decoration whatsoever… and it was absolutely huge. Holding it in front of his torso, Takanori judged its size — it was large enough that it easily reached his knees, pretty wide as well. Kouyou’s build was larger than his own, but he was absolutely nowhere near _this_ big… maybe Kouyou just found comfort in ridiculously oversized clothing. A quick look into another drawer later found Takanori a pair of soft pants that looked like they weren’t so long they would try to trip and kill him immediately; that would have to do. No way he was going to wear shorts.

Deciding on the band tee, Takanori gathered the clothes, laid them on the small sofa and waited. A few moments later Kouyou came out. “Think fast,” he said and tossed something at Takanori’s lap. Takanori just barely had enough time to catch it — a toothbrush, still in its wrapping. “Your turn. I’ll get stuff ready for you.”

When Takanori returned from the bathroom, the lights were off, the only source of light the street lamps and lit windows outside, aside from the glow from the bathroom lamp that trickled out through the open door. The blinds had been opened again, and a blanket and pillow were slung onto the loveseat; Kouyou stood by the bedroom, folded sunglasses in his hand. He had yet to change, still in his slacks and tee, but his outfit looked enough like sleepwear as it was, so maybe he wasn’t going to. 

“It’s not too late yet, you know.”

“Thanks,” Takanori said adamantly, “but I’ll take my chances.”

That earned him an eyeroll, but Kouyou gave in all the same. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

The door softly clicked shut.

Takanori tried, he really did, to sleep in the cramped space of the loveseat. It wasn’t like the sofa was hard — if anything, the cushions were too soft, but no matter how much Takanori curled up, he just couldn’t get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

It was stupid. He should probably just have gone home, rather than leave himself to suffer like this… or maybe have accepted Kouyou’s offer. But the thought of sharing a bed with him — after all that Takanori had seen, all he had watched and drawn and masturbated to, all that he still watched despite knowing it was wrong — it could so easily become a disaster. What if he couldn’t control himself and ended up crossing a line, what if he really did stoop to Ishida’s level, maybe enough to take advantage of Kouyou while he slept…

The thought made him wince. _God_ , no. Takanori might not be a perfect flower like Suzuki — even if Akira would kill him if he knew Takanori described him that way — but there was no way he’d go that far. Unlike Ishida, Takanori had _morals_. He knew right from wrong. 

_So then what’s the problem?_ came his inner voice, nagging and rationalizing. _You can share a bed with Suzuki with no issues, but not with Kouyou? Get over yourself. Nothing will happen and you know it._ But it wasn’t like it was fair, comparing those two to each other… Akira was just… a friend, someone who didn’t give a fuck about physical contact, and more importantly Takanori wasn’t attracted to him. And he was straight. Kouyou, meanwhile… his orientation was unknown, but Takanori had a pretty good guess that he preferred men.

He knew he was keeping himself awake, thinking about it, justifying himself in staying on the sofa and trying to convince himself to drift off. But the minutes were ticking slowly by, like hours, and Takanori still couldn’t fall asleep. He counted sheep. He counted the cracks in the ceiling, barely visible in the dark room. He curled up again, then uncurled. Threw his leg over the armrest.

 _It’s only weird if you make it weird_ , Kouyou’s voice echoed in his head. Kouyou who was just in the next room, lying in his massive bed, stretched out just right to be able to fall asleep easily… 

(Kouyou who was the object of his fantasies, whose sightless face filled half a sketchbook at home, whom Takanori had jerked it to more than any other pornography, but Kouyou who was also his _friend_ , someone who trusted him and cared for him, enough to offer to share his bed.)

… ah, fuck it.

Grabbing the pillow, Takanori finally got off the sofa, blanket draped around his shoulders like a lazy cape as he quietly knocked on the door. With the street light seeping through the open blinds in the bedroom window, he could see Kouyou raise his head from a sea of sheets and pillows, smiling sleepily in victory.

“I knew you’d give up eventually,” he murmured, moving over to give Takanori space.

“Shut up and go back to sleep.”

There was a soft chuckle as Takanori lay down, keeping a safe distance, but in Kouyou’s bed he slept better than he could ever remember having.


	9. Chapter 9

All around him, the world was warm. Soft and gentle, a perfect sense of comfort enveloping his body as mellow morning light poured in and onto closed eyes. Takanori moaned, not yet aware enough to be annoyed at the sun for waking him up, and attempted to bury his face in the warm sheets that by all rights should have been by his head. But instead of the soft scrape of cotton against his cheeks, he found himself pushing his nose into smooth locks of hair. 

Wait.

Shit, he was at Kouyou’s place. Shit, he was in Kouyou’s _bed_ , and shit shit _shit_ , Takanori was anything but a calm sleeper. He knew that from the many times he’d slept next to Akira, from how he had hogged all the blankets and forced Akira to steal some warmth back or risk dying from the cold.

Fuck. Takanori _knew_ this had been a terrible idea, but he had managed to forget to consider that particular aspect. Cautious, he looked up, pulling himself away from Kouyou’s warm body. They were both still covered, thank god. He had to stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief, sitting up and moving back to his side of the bed. Or the middle, rather. At some point during the night, he had pushed himself more and more over to Kouyou, and now Kouyou was curled up nearly on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, figuring his friend had woken up, but there was no response. “You awake?”

Quiet. Breathing aside, Kouyou was deathly still, though Takanori couldn’t see much other than the long blond hair. If he was awake, then he was doing a really good job of ignoring Takanori. Not that Takanori really minded — as far as he was concerned, it was a great chance to study Kouyou closer. Not because he was creepy, but because he was an artist, and he was curious. Besides, he didn’t really want to get up yet.

The way Kouyou was lying, he was fully shielded from the light coming through the blinds, turned away and facing the wall, pillow covering half his face as he snuggled into the sheets. Considering his height, it was a little funny how he had curled up so tightly, Takanori thought. It must have been a while since Kouyou dyed his hair, he noted, seeing dark roots that were beginning to settle…

Takanori paused. Between the strands of blond, there was a small streak of vivid purple, barely visible, but very much _there_. Kouyou still made no sign of waking up. Takanori risked it and reached out, carefully brushing some hair out of the way to get a better look. 

A bruise. Small, yes, but it was definitely a bruise there, on the back of Kouyou’s neck. Like a hickey... Takanori damned his own mind. Beautiful blind boy, who was pushed around and abused by large men who had no faces, men who left bright bruises in their wake… gulping, he looked away. _Not now_. Fuck, not _here_ , when he’s so close, when he’s _asleep_ , defenseless, unaware.

His thoughts were drifting off to terrible places again. Best to get up, Takanori decided, and slipped out from between the sheets. He was halfway to the door when there was the sound of fabric shuffling from behind him, followed by a tired groan. He froze.

“Morning… where are you…?”

Turning around, Takanori had just enough time to see Kouyou’s closed eyes disappear as he slid on the sunglasses taken from the nightstand.

“... uh, good morning.”

Kouyou was sleepily staring him down. Takanori shifted uneasily, feeling awkward, almost embarrassed, like he had been caught in the middle of running away from something. 

“... been up long? Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” Takanori excused himself, catching Kouyou’s tired mumble,

“I’ll get up… just… give me a minute.”

Leaving the room, Takanori almost tripped as the pants finally betrayed him, too long for his short legs, so he gathered his clothes to change while he was at it. He left the band tee on, though. It was comfortable, and he was a fan. Plus, it smelled like Kouyou.

Well. All of him smelled like Kouyou right now — like cigarettes and coffee, the ever-present alcohol and something indescribable that could only be _him_ , all of it partially hidden underneath the scent of his cologne and whatever shampoo he used. There was just something just inherently comfortable about Kouyou, Takanori mused as he fixed his messy hair. That went for the apartment, too. It was just… comfortable, homely in all the ways his parents' place was not.

When Takanori left the bathroom, Kouyou had, true to his promise, gotten out of bed; he stood sleepy in the kitchen, fiddling with a pot of water. Takanori was reasonably nervous about Kouyou handling a stove, especially when he wasn’t entirely awake, but instead his mind went blank.

Because Kouyou wasn’t wearing _pants_. His long legs were bare beneath the oversized tee he wore. Had Takanori been sleeping right next to that? And he was staring, too, gawking inappropriately at his friend who stood half naked in the kitchen, too distracted to notice.

 _Get ahold of yourself. You are not Ishida. You are_ not _Ishida, and you will act like a decent fucking human being._

“I’m making tea, hope you want some.”

Tearing his eyes away, Takanori approached Kouyou, carefully keeping his eyes fixed on his friend’s face. “Is that your pajamas?”

“... what?” Kouyou glanced down at himself, failing to see anything wrong. Takanori followed his gaze for a moment — his legs had to be so smooth, too. “Yeah, why?” Takanori couldn’t even bring himself to answer, trying to explain himself in a way that didn’t embarrass either of them; but before he got the chance, it dawned on Kouyou. “Wait, do you think I’m naked under this shirt?”

The need to flush hot red was fighting its way up his neck. Takanori shook his head, but Kouyou wasn’t fooled, laughing and suddenly so much more awake. “Why would I— _you’re_ here! I sleep in my boxers!” To prove his point, he lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing more of his soft thighs, as well as a hip and — sure enough, his underwear. 

Takanori looked away, barely believing Kouyou’s sheer indecency. Porn stars and their shamelessness. “Your shirt is way too big.”

“You’re _blushing_!” 

“Piss off.”

“It’s so fun to tease you, Taka, you get prissy so easy.” 

Takanori huffed in partially fake annoyance. “No, I don’t. And stop bastardizing my name.”

“Whatever you say, Taka.”

In retaliation, Takanori slapped the back of his head. “Shut up.”

Kouyou continued to grin, turning off the stove and fixing the sunglasses that had been pushed further down his face when Takanori hit him. Seemed Kouyou was capable enough to boil water without causing a fire.

“Speaking of shirts,” Takanori said after a while, tapping his chest to bring attention to the band tee. “I didn’t know you were a fan?”

“Huh? Oh.” Kouyou paused in the midst of pouring himself a cup of water for his tea, but Takanori could see the way he was biting his lip. “Yeah, they used to be my life, a while back.”

“Not anymore?”

“... no, not really. You like them?”

“I do,” Takanori said, his enthusiasm tempered. “Hell, they’re part of what made me want to pursue music. Did I ever tell you I was in a band, once?”

“You didn’t.”

A bitter look had crept across Kouyou’s face, so he dropped it. “... well, I was, now you know.” A beat. “Mind if I take a cup?”

 

Takanori didn’t bring the music up again, and they returned to the loveseat with tea and leftover food from the fridge serving as breakfast. It was good, like a proper home-cooked meal; Takanori figured Kouyou’s mother had made it when she had been there.

“Did you bring your art supplies?”

“Hm?” Takanori looked up, halfway through chewing his current mouthful of food, swallowing before he answered. “Yeah, why?”

“But you haven’t touched them.” Kouyou had put his untouched plate down, hands circling his cup, enjoying the heat radiating through the ceramic. “I just think that it’s sad that you don’t draw more often.”

“... if you want to model for me again, you can just say so.”

“That’s not what I meant, just…” he cut himself off, shrugging. “I just mean, you’re clearly so talented, but I never see you draw.”

“But you _do_ want to be my model?”

If it wasn’t for the cup of tea, Kouyou would probably have jokingly slapped him. But instead he rolled his eyes behind his glasses, muttering, “Well, if you insist…”

Takanori grinned, getting up to grab his bag and turn out the lights so Kouyou could take his glasses off. Kouyou was right, though. Takanori knew he was talented, and he agreed that it was unfortunate that he didn’t put that skill to use as often as he could. There were his sketches of blind boy, but those were to remain a secret. 

Besides, this Kouyou was so much more pleasant to draw where he half-lay on the sofa, naked legs folded and long hair falling down his shoulders, the cup of tea in his hands. And most importantly, with his face bare.

“You’re a natural,” Takanori complemented. He meant it, but part of him hoped that it would get Kouyou talking. 

Kouyou didn’t, unsurprisingly enough, merely smirking. “I’m very good at sitting still, thanks.”

Knowing it was pointless, Takanori dropped it, and continued to sketch. “Funny.” Comfortable silence spread between them again. 

“I should dye my hair again soon,” Kouyou said after a while. 

Takanori had seated himself on the armrest, the levitated position good both for drawing and viewing in general. He hummed in agreement as he added some shades to the sketch of Kouyou’s cheek. “Yeah, your roots are beginning to show.”

“Wanna help me out?”

And he looked up, seeing the look in Kouyou’s eyes, warm and inviting. “Sure.” 

They went quiet again, the only sound in the room the sounds of traffic outside and the gentle scraping of graphite against paper. Then Takanori raised his voice again, “Actually, I’ve been thinking about bleaching my hair lately, myself.”

A smug smile. “Want me to help you out?”

“Nah, can’t do it. I do want to, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, my dad would kill me, and I’d probably lose my job.”

“That’s stupid.”

He paused, looking up from his sketching. “What?” 

When he met Kouyou’s gaze again, there was a determination in his eyes. “You should be allowed to express yourself, is what I’m saying. And it’s not like you have a strict dress code, you work in a grocery store. What’s stopping you?”

“... convenience store, actually.” Taken off guard, Takanori had to stop himself from fiddling with his ears again. He hesitated, before explaining. “Thing is, my boss is an asshole and refuses to let punks like me work under him,” he said, bitterly. “So we have a deal. I come in looking like a normal person, he lets me continue to have a job.” He sighed. “I continue to have a job, my dad continues to let me live at home.”

But Kouyou’s brows furrowed; he didn’t look the slightest bit convinced. “That’s bullshit.”

“I know.”

“Your boss is an idiot. There’s nothing weird about that— is this why you always cover your ears up when you’re working? I never see you wearing your earrings during weekdays.”

So Kouyou _had_ noticed. “Maybe.”

“Complete bullshit. I’d quit, if I were you. You shouldn’t be putting up with that crap.” He was waving his cup around dangerously, tea nearly spilling over the edge — probably not hot enough to burn by now, but it would still hurt. Takanori frowned, not entirely willing to defend himself when he knew that Kouyou was right, when he agreed completely but didn’t have it in him to do anything about it.

He tapped his pencil against the sketchpad instead. “Sit still, I’m drawing you here.”

 

It was dinner time when Takanori eventually made it home. Rather than heading straight to his room, he stupidly decided to stop to eat. The room went tense the moment he walked in, and he supposed he should have known better than to stay as they asked him where he had been and what he had been doing the entire weekend. He had been at a friend’s place, they knew, but _a friend_ translated to _Suzuki_ in their heads, even if Takanori were to tell them that no, he hadn’t even _seen_ Suzuki this weekend, hadn’t seen him in weeks — they wouldn’t believe him. Sure, he could explain himself, tell them about Kouyou, but… he didn’t want to.

Takanori knew what they were thinking, what his father was implying as he stared across the table with judgmental eyes, studying his son’s face, neck and arms for proof. Takanori knew all too well what was running through his father’s mind. It had long since stopped surprising him. His mother was no better. Takanori knew that the idea of him with another man didn’t sit well with her at all, but at least she had the decency to keep quiet about it, leaving the table and the tense atmosphere to put the dishes away. 

Takanori didn’t have anything to say. He had sat through this particular conversation before, and he was too tired to fight it. But for as much chagrin his parents showed regarding the topic, they were both idiots. Takanori had never even _been_ with a man. Not like they cared; they didn't listen, yet at the same time neither of them could accept him, whether for what he was or what he was _not_ …

Bitterly, Takanori wondered what it was that they didn’t understand about the concept of bisexuality.

They were his parents. He wanted their approval… but even if there was a part of Takanori that wanted to appease them and prove their assumptions wrong, another one, bigger and louder, was desperate to rebel. It made him want to piss them off. That part of Takanori wished that maybe, just maybe, things would change if he did. And then there was Kouyou — beautiful Kouyou who didn’t take shit from anyone, who was unique, strange, experienced and _attractive_ , with his brilliant charm and golden hair and eyes that couldn’t stand light… maybe, just maybe they could become something more, something that surpassed the friendship they had now.

It was just a wish, and though it mostly existed just to spite his parents for their ignorance, there was another part of Takanori — one that was small, wary and buried under layers of bitter, steely dismay, that recognized the way his heart would flutter at the thought.

For now though, Kouyou would remain his dearest friend… and the blind boy, his object of fantasy and quiet muse, would be waiting for him whenever they were apart.


	10. Chapter 10

After that weekend spent at Kouyou’s apartment, coming over became a regular thing. Since he lived so close to the store, Kouyou often invited Takanori to follow him home, sometimes for lunch, sometimes after work. One Friday Kouyou announced his presence by slinging his purchases over the counter where Takanori sat caught in thoughts and only half working. Suzuki was finally free for their monthly meetups again; Takanori had been looking forward to it, to that casual hangout with movies and cheap beer one couldn’t get drunk on, and he had missed Akira. Yet when Kouyou asked if he was free, part of him wanted to say yes.

“I can’t today,” Takanori said as he scanned barcodes and bagged products, cigarettes and pricy beer. He wondered if Kouyou ever shopped for food. “Meeting a friend.”

Kouyou didn’t mind. “Another day, then?” he simply asked as he paid. The roots of his hair were showing clearly by this point, and he was clearly aware of it, a small plastic bag from a hair salon hanging from his arm. Takanori nodded. He was always free on weekends anyway. 

“Then I’ll see you this weekend, yeah? Come by anytime, I’ll be home.”

He watched quietly as Kouyou left, head held high and eyes hidden, watched how a gust of wind wildly blew his hair about his face when he stepped out the store’s sliding doors, enough to expose a purplish bruise just for a moment, and then Kouyou was gone.

It was one of the things that couldn’t escape his mind, even as he left for work to meet up with Akira, no Ishida to keep him company or hold him back. The small hickey he had stared at that night he stayed at Kouyou’s place had faded over time, only to be replaced with new ones that he could sometimes glimpse through blond hair. 

He couldn’t help but wonder where they came from. Granted, it was none of Takanori’s business, he knew, but he still wanted to know. Were the videos still being made? Or was it just a byproduct of romantic escapades, a passionate fling, or something else entirely? Kouyou had never mentioned romantic partners, but then again, they hadn’t really talked about that part of their personal lives… he vaguely remembered the girl who had been waiting in the hallway the first time Takanori came over, but Kouyou had been practically hostile towards her.

He was still pondering the great mystery of Kouyou’s hickeys when he arrived at the movie rental, but dismissed the thought as he spotted Akira leisurely hanging around the entrance. The car stood parked nearby, and Akira looked warm and bright in the sun, smoking as he waited. He seemed relaxed, in a way that wasn’t just the calming effect of nicotine, but like a weight had been lifted off his chest since last time Takanori saw him.

Upon spotting him, Akira approached, protesting when Takanori stole his half-smoked cigarette but not doing anything to stop it. A few drags and the cigarette butt was thrown to the ground; they entered the rental, bickering between each other about what movie to watch. It was Takanori’s turn to pick, but Akira still stubbornly wanted to check out whatever garbage that caught his attention this time. That was how it usually went. Akira, eternally adamant and with no filter to tell quality from trash… despite the grief it brought, having to sit through terrible movie after terrible movie whenever Takanori wasn’t the one in charge of choosing what to watch, he still loved Akira for it to some degree.

It was just a strange trait of his, as was his ability to snap right back to a situation despite the time that had passed. It made everything so much easier. Foul beer and rented movies in the tiny space that Akira called a living room, just like they always had done it for the past year. It was nearly the polar opposite of what Kouyou had begun to represent in his mind. Kouyou who spent his money on alcohol and video games, Kouyou whose apartment was strangely large for a one-man flat in Tokyo, who stubbornly believed that the right to express oneself was more important than shelter and a steady income, Kouyou who was inviting and cheerful while still having that air of mystery about him.

But they were both his closest friends, and they had things in common: a similar dialect, the same taste in music — at least Kouyou used to, before — that almost exaggerated friendliness and feeling of familiarity wherever they went. How they both believed that sharing a bed with a friend was the most natural thing in the world… their coffee shops.

“You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”

And he stood there again, in Kouyou’s bathroom while weighing his two friends against each other, wearing plastic gloves as his hands gently massaged dye into his friend’s scalp. With hair wet and matted with colour like it was, locks sticking to the sides of his neck and Takanori’s hands, Takanori could see everything... the hickey right there, clear in front of him, and he wanted to ask but knew better.

“Just concentrating.”

Kouyou chuckled. “You don’t need to think very hard for this.”

“I know.”

Kouyou, whose presence felt so right, whose entire being was so strangely intoxicating, whose apartment felt more like home than his parents’ did. Every time Takanori was invited to come over, he grabbed that chance and stayed there as long as he could allow himself, sometimes long enough for dusk to settle — long enough for Kouyou to disappear into his room and reappear half undressed in his large shirt and underwear and nothing else. Had Kouyou been a chick, things would probably have been vastly different, but as it was Takanori had to show restraint and act like nothing.

He wasn’t Ishida, after all. 

Takanori was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, smoking with the window open, watching Kouyou who lay propped up against the wall in his bed, sunglasses on in the dim room as he played a game on a handheld console. His hair was freshly tinted gold, smooth and almost entirely dry now, the dark roots gone with help from Takanori’s hands. 

“It’s getting late,” Takanori murmured as he took a drag. “I should head home soon.”

The sound coming from the game were tinny through the console’s speakers, faint music and noise from a virtual battle as the tiny screen lit up Kouyou’s face, the lenses of his glasses. “Mmm. You have work.”

“I do.”

“I can’t join you for lunch tomorrow, but you can come over when you’re done. Ah, crap, this boss is hard…” Kouyou sat up further, lips pursing in concentration and his naked legs falling slightly open. Takanori gulped, unable to look away for the moment, until Kouyou sighed and threw the console away on the mattress, presumably having lost his boss fight. “Sure you don’t want to stay here tonight?”

“Thanks, but can’t,” Takanori said, moving to the window both to throw away the cigarette and hide his flushed face. It was getting very late, most of the blocks around dark and dead to the world, even in a city that otherwise never slept. It was a strangely quiet part of the city. Calm and dark but for streetlights and some traffic. He closed the window, letting down the open blinds. “Yeah, I’m going home now.”

“I’ll see you around, then. Turn off the lights when you go.” He seemed tired as he combed a hand through his freshly dyed hair, running the smooth locks against fingertips. “And thank you for the help.”

Weekends had always been Takanori’s sanctuary, but these days, Kouyou’s sheer presence had become a haven in itself. As had his apartment, as had Kato’s little coffee shop. Even if Takanori had to deal with his own uncomfortable guilt, reminded of his fantasies whenever Kouyou would parade around in various states of undress, entirely oblivious to the effect he was having on Takanori — but he could deal with that: as long as he had this, his little asylum from the rest of the world, Takanori could go on pretending that he was actually living a life, and not just existing. 

He could pretend that he didn’t spend some nights browsing the internet and deep web both in his search for more works featuring blind boy, that he wasn’t harboring a growing crush on his friend — he refused to think of it as an infatuation; the fact he couldn’t quite tell where Kouyou ended and blind boy began, even if the only things connecting the two was that they had the same face and body, that they shared an almost subconscious allure that Takanori couldn’t help but be so damn attracted to.

But he was good at keeping secrets. Takanori was no perfect fucking flower like Suzuki, he had his flaws… hell, if anything, Takanori was little more than flaw upon flaw strung-together and hiding behind a facade of mostly-faux friendliness. And Kouyou had fallen for that facade, letting Takanori come over as often as he wished, allowed him inside to that sanctuary.

He knew that it wouldn’t last forever, that someday he would probably be found out. But how would Kouyou react? With betrayed rage, silent embarrassment, or indifference? Would he just accept it and move on as if it didn’t change anything between them?

Somehow, it was the last possibility that hurt the most to imagine.

 

It was a few months into their friendship when things started to change. Having exchanged phone numbers at some point, it wasn’t unusual for Kouyou to simply text his invitations when he was free. As a result they didn’t see each other as much as usual, Kouyou not seeing the point in coming around to the store just to see Takanori when he could use the phone, though he would walk by the store every few days. He was busier than before, it seemed, and it was often Takanori would find himself alone in Kato’s coffee shop. These days he only saw Kouyou for lunch a few times a week, though he was still invited over to the apartment often, especially on weekends.

As Takanori was making his way up the stairs to Kouyou’s apartment one Saturday, he could hear a feminine voice yelling, one that sounded simultaneously both angry and sad. He barely recognized her, having only seen the girl once, long ago, but there she was, grey jacket and plaid skirt with her long dark hair falling down her back. She reminded Takanori a bit of himself, at least style-wise.

But she was hammering on Kouyou’s door, her voice loud and almost pained, “I _know_ you’re in there, Kou! If you would just let me in! I know you need me, just talk to me again—”

Upon hearing footfalls she cut herself off, head whipping around to see Takanori approach, and in brief flashes her face went from upset to startled to dismayed, before finally settling on a carefully blank look, irritation still seeping through. 

Takanori would have been impressed by the range of her expressions, had the situation been different. “Oh,” she said, seeing him, “It’s _you._ ”

Apparently, she knew him. “Excuse me?”

“It’s you, Kouyou’s newest best friend, yeah, of course I know you.” She turned back, rapping sharply on the door, sighing at the lack of response. “He won’t let me in anymore.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you’re standing here and screaming?” He shrugged. “I’d be put off if some crazy bitch was yelling outside my door, too.”

Her face darkened. “Don’t assume crap like that. He didn’t tell you about me?”

“Kouyou? No,” Takanori simply said, walking up to the door and knocking, calling gently, “Hey, I’m here.”

There was a slight shuffle coming from within the apartment, as if Kouyou was moving around right by the door, but nothing happened. “He won’t open,” the girl muttered, sounding resigned. “Not while I’m still here.”

“So leave?”

“ _Today_? Are you crazy? Don’t you know what day it is? I can’t leave him alone, he could do something stupid.”

Takanori looked over to her; she was biting her lip, glancing anxiously over at the door, hoping it would open. Kouyou had never mentioned her, and it was clear there was some sort of strife between them, since he refused let her in… but her concern seemed genuine, at the very least. 

“... he hasn’t told you, huh? You don’t even know who I am. I apologize.” She turned back to Takanori, bowing slightly. “My name is Midori, I was Kouyou’s friend before. You’re his friend now, so please take care of him.”

“... Matsumoto. Before what?”

Her mouth fell slightly open in something Takanori could only believe to be surprise, but she was quick to gather herself. Midori (first name basis again?) gestured Takanori to come away from the door, and when she spoke, her voice was slightly hushed. “I guess he didn’t tell you, I don’t know if he ever will, but Kou has some… baggage. It could make him do stupid things. So please make sure he doesn’t end up doing something he’ll regret, alright? Do whatever he tells you to, but don’t leave him alone.” Then she pulled away, bowing quickly again, “Thank you.” And she turned around and left in hurried strides, as though running away.

What the fuck was _that_ about, was all Takanori could think as he watched Midori disappear down the stairs. That was quite possibly the strangest thing to happen lately. A former friend, huh? And baggage? Was there anyone on earth who didn’t have some emotional baggage to lug around? 

Maybe it was the anniversary of some tragic event, he figured, turning back to the door, but before he could get the chance to even knock, there was the sound of movement — shuffling feet, the click of the lock, and the door was pulled open.

There stood Kouyou, slightly more disheveled than usual, lazily dressed and his hair mussed but otherwise not looking like anything was out of the ordinary.

“Hey there, Taka,” he said, stepping aside to let Takanori in, chuckling upon receiving a reprimanding slap on the shoulder for his continual demeaning of the name.

“Good day to you too. Who’s the girl?”

“Oh. Well,” Kouyou started, fixing his sunglasses higher on his nose. “No one important.”

“She wasn’t exactly a door salesman.”

“No,” he sighed, closing the door, and then stepped into his living room, flicking the lights on. “Someone who used to be a friend, but changed. I don’t really talk to her anymore.”

 _That much is obvious_ , Takanori thought as he untied his boots. “But she keeps coming back to you anyway?” Kouyou was tense, shoulders angled awkwardly as he played with a box of cigarettes, uncomfortable about the subject. “Good thing I came to your rescue, huh?”

A snort. “Yeah, you’re my knight in shining armor. Guess I should reward you for keeping me safe. Want a drink?”

“Well—” But Kouyou was already in the kitchen, grabbing a glass from his cabinet. There was a wine bottle placed on the counter, already opened. He’d probably been drinking when Takanori came over, which wasn’t unusual, but usually it would just be beer. Though Kouyou always offered, gracious host as he was, Takanori had never accepted anything alcoholic aside from the wine he had brought as a birthday present, a few months back.

The glass was already being filled by the time Takanori reached him, and Kouyou shoved the glass into his hands. Too late to refuse it now, Takanori supposed. “What’s the occasion?”

Kouyou had gone to grab his own glass which had stood unnoticed on the coffee table until now, nearly drained. “You need an occasion?”

Takanori put the wine up to his face, not entirely sure if he dared to drink or not, but a sip couldn’t hurt. “Well, as far as I know, people usually don’t sit around alone drinking wine in the middle of the day for no reason. So, what’s the occasion?”

“The occasion…” Kouyou quieted for a moment, “... is that I wanted wine, so I got some. Do you like it?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“You’ve barely even touched it.”

He took another sip, watching Kouyou’s amused face as he did so. “Happy now?”

Kouyou chuckled slightly, shaking his head and taking a seat on his sofa. “It’s a start.”

The wine was good — not as fancy as the one Takanori had snagged from his parents, but good nonetheless, and Kouyou was insisting that he enjoyed the wine as thoroughly as possible. Which in Kouyou’s terms, meant in as big quantities as possible, and it didn’t take long for the glass to get filled again, even with how slow Takanori drank.

It was probably fine. It was Saturday, and it wasn’t much longer until the sun would begin setting, but it was the first time Takanori had risked actually getting drunk around Kouyou. As much as his friend would drink when he was around, Takanori had never accepted anything because he was aware of his own lacking tolerance. On the other hand, Kouyou was capable of drinking stupid amounts, to the point that Takanori would start to worry if his friend would suffer alcohol poisoning.

Two refills later Takanori had thrown his legs across Kouyou’s lap, sketchbook in hand as he doodled the interior of the apartment half-assedly. Over the weeks Kouyou had insisted quite heavily Takanori make use of his talents for art, and he had listened — he had torn open his box of art supplies and taken up painting again, and he was regularly drawing things that weren’t Kouyou. Even if it wasn’t as interesting.

Being bored, and a little tipsy, Takanori began sketching a flaming skull to sit on top of the television. Kouyou was murmuring stories about his adventures, talking about people he’d met, exotic beverages, parties and back alley bar fights he’d witnessed or been told about. But Takanori’s mind was elsewhere, trapped somewhere between the skinless face with bleeding eyes and the little scene that had met him when he first arrived at Kouyou’s door.

“You know, I don’t think I believe you,” Takanori said, seemingly out of nowhere as he doodled goopy vomit pouring out from the skull’s open mouth and onto the television, only half aware of the way Kouyou turned to look at him through his glasses. “When you said there was no occasion, I mean.”

He was answered with a shrug, Kouyou crossing his legs under Takanori’s own. “There doesn’t need to be a reason for everything I do.”

“Your girlfriend in the hallway, what was her name? Mori? Minori? She had some interesting things to say.” 

“Her name is Midori. You’re terrible with names, no wonder Fujimoto hates you.”

“Shut up. Your girlfriend seemed to think there was something happening today?”

“... and she’s not my girlfriend, Taka.” Takanori slapped his arm a little, but Kouyou’s face had turned grim. “What’d she tell you?”

“Something something _emotional baggage_ , that you might do something stupid if you were left alone today? I don’t know. It was weird.” The skull was starting to look appropriately disgusting. Takanori smirked a little, pleased with himself. “And then I come in and you look a mess, and you’re drinking wine alone. So yeah, not sure I buy it.”

There was a sigh. Takanori looked away from his doodle to see Kouyou gripping his glass again, probably staring into the drink. 

“... and I wonder, are you okay?”

“Midori’s just overreacting,” he murmured finally. “She thinks I’ll throw myself out the window or something, if she’s not here to save me… I know you think I’m drowning my sorrows in alcohol. I’m not.”

Takanori glanced at the wine, not buying it. “But something did happen.”

“It’s a few years ago now, but…”

A tense silence had filled the room, and Takanori would have picked up on it sooner, had he not been tipsy; mentally he slapped himself for being so oblivious.

Putting the sketchbook down on the table, Takanori took his own glass again, fingers circling the smooth surface. Whatever the answer was, it probably had to do with Kouyou’s… choice of career… maybe this would be the answer he’d been looking for. “So what was it?”

“... my dog died.”

Takanori stared blankly.

Kouyou sniffled slightly. “I know, right? Not something to get this worked up over… Midori seems to think it is. It’s two years ago, today. He ran away, then someone went and killed him. We never found out who did it, or why. ” Leaning back, Kouyou propped his chin up on his knuckles. “Midori is right that I miss him, though… he was a really good dog.”

Takanori remained silent, quietly sipping his wine in thought, not entirely convinced. She was practically trying to ram down the door, concerned for Kouyou’s very life, and it just didn’t seem plausible that it was all about a dead dog. Sad, but not probable. 

Kouyou was lying, or at least not telling the entire truth… keeping his secrets close to his chest. Did it have to do with blind boy?

It might. Which was reason enough for Takanori to want to know, but refrain from asking. “I never knew you had one,” Takanori said. “What was his name?”

Kouyou smiled, gently, his frame relaxed again believing he’d been convincing enough. He answered as he grabbed the bottle again, intending to refill the glass, “Keisuke.”

“Well then, let’s have a toast,” Takanori said, raising his now full glass in the air. “In memory of Keisuke.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these stupid kids. :(

Kouyou’s bed was always so warm, even when he wasn’t in it. They had spent many hours lying there over the weeks. Kouyou didn’t hide his opinion that he found it dumb the way Takanori insisted on keeping his distance, but nor did he argue Takanori’s defiance against physical contact when they were together like that, likely figuring Takanori needed to protect what was left of his fragile masculinity. After all, lazing around on a tiny sofa together was one thing, but on a bed it could be defined as cuddling, god forbid. Takanori never cuddled anyone, except for when he was drunk, and even then he knew better than to cuddle up to porn stars. Unless he was asleep. And unconscious, and couldn’t be judged for his actions.

After disposing Takanori in his bed, Kouyou had disappeared into the bathroom, probably to change. Rolling over, Takanori buried his nose in the pillows, breathing in that scent that was so distinctively _Kouyou_. After Kouyou’s constant refills, he was drunk. That was a first between them, but Takanori had behaved pretty well so far and barely made a fool out of himself.

The dog did exist; Kouyou had a photo, tucked away in a small wooden box he kept in his nightstand. He had gotten it out to show, maybe as proof. Takanori had studied it — sure enough, Keisuke was real, a large brown dog with long fur and a wagging tail. There was no younger Kouyou in the shot, disappointingly enough. No younger Kouyou to compare to blind boy to see how much they really looked alike…

Usually, Takanori would force the thoughts of blind boy from his brain when he was at Kouyou’s place, but tonight he was drunk. Part of him wanted to, perhaps subconsciously, grope around for Akira, throw something at him despite the fact he wasn’t even there… but instead Kouyou was everywhere, his things and his smell, his alcohol. They would be sleeping together again tonight, that much was obvious, Takanori too drunk to go home.

Not like he wanted to go anyway. His father had become more and more irritated with him lately, always glaring whenever Takanori was around, no matter what he did. Takanori had assumed his dad would be pleased he had started doing art again, because it meant he was at least doing something with his free time, but instead he got yelled at for wasting his life, claiming that Takanori would never amount to anything if he continued on like this… and his father still believed that Takanori spent the days away from home with a boyfriend that didn’t exist.

Kouyou. Not a boyfriend. _Kouyou_. Just his friend. Not blind boy, just a porn star with sensitive eyes… he wasn’t even sure how much of a star Kouyou really was. So far Takanori had found little more than pictures, to the point that he had almost considered pestering Ishida. He hadn’t even _seen_ the guy in months, not since their little fight. But Ishida was the one who prompted Takanori to approach Kouyou in the first place... 

_You should be grateful_ , his now somewhat drunk but always reprimanding mind came whispering, and he knew that it wasn’t wrong. Without Ishida to set him in motion, he would never even have noticed Kouyou. He’d never have given the man in the sunglasses a second thought. He’d never have this sanctuary of his, his secret fantasies, his art… instead he would just be wasting away at home, dreaming of a life he’d never have.

A soft sound of bare feet padding the wooden floor, then the mattress dipped. Takanori looked up from the pillows. There he was, in his sleep clothes and face bare as he put his sunglasses on the bedside table. “Sorry it took so long,” Kouyou said, “Mom called.”

“She calls so late?”

Kouyou shrugged, lying down on his side so they could see each other in the half-dark, his long legs crossing and fingers folding. “Late? It’s not even ten. Were you planning to sleep so soon?”

He was staring and he knew it, unable to tear his eyes away from the smooth, bare skin, the little bruises that dotted the knees… and he was being inappropriate. Takanori buried his head back into the pillows, muffling his reply from “no” to an incoherent “nhh.”

Beside him, Kouyou crawled closer. “Didn’t catch that.”

Peeking out again, Takanori found himself face to face with Kouyou, barely an inch between them. With so little distance he could see everything, see how Kouyou’s pupils were dilated to the point that his eyes nearly were black. Dark, half-lidded… seductive. Like this, and in his drunken state, even the amused smirk seemed suggestive. 

“Taka, you’re not answering me,” Kouyou teased, reaching to shake Takanori slightly. The movement caused Kouyou’s oversized shirt to slip down and expose a shoulder, his skin stark pale in the dark. 

“I wasn’t,” was the muttered reply, and Takanori turned away again, pressing himself flat against the mattress. “Just want to lie down a bit. All night. Your bed is really nice.” 

He wondered how drunk Kouyou was. After the wine bottle stood empty, Kouyou had raided the fridge and begun downing beer instead. Takanori had been given most of the wine anyway, even if his tolerance was leagues worse than Kouyou’s… but he was pretty sure Kouyou was already drinking when he came over. And now Kouyou was so _close_ , so close that Takanori could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his warm breath… and Takanori really needed to take his mind off the growing need in the pit of his stomach.

“Glad you think so,” Kouyou said, seemingly satisfied before pulling away, reaching out to the side to grab his sunglasses and handheld console off the nightstand. Takanori watched quietly as Kouyou rested his head against the pillows, turning on the game system as he slid on the glasses. Bright light flashed, illuminating his face, the skin of his throat and exposed shoulder; Takanori could see Kouyou squeezing his eyes shut, a split second too slow to shield himself from the screen… it reminded him of something. A photograph of Kouyou, younger and thinner, flinching against the light of a sharp lamp.

No blindfold for blind boy, for Kouyou, just sunglasses and a dim apartment… and with everything Takanori had seen, there were possibly hundreds of videos that he hadn’t yet found, but he had seen every inch of that beautiful skin, hickeys or no… seen all except for the open eyes. Those were Kouyou’s, and Kouyou’s alone.

_How long will you keep lying?_

No, Takanori didn’t want to sleep, he was just guilty, drunk, and dumb, and needed to get laid — he was probably about to do something really stupid, he knew. Knew it long before the words formed on his tongue, before his voice raised in the half-silence, “I need to tell you something.”

There was a brief moment before Kouyou looked up — something dark clouding his face at Takanori’s severe expression, the tone of his voice, weighted and regretful. Then Kouyou paused the game, tinny soundtrack cutting off, and he put his console away cautiously, turning to face Takanori. 

“I’m…” _guilty, I know who you are, I’ve seen your videos, your pictures, I’ve watched you getting fucked dozens of times—_ Takanori didn’t want to look at him, but at the same time, he needed to see — how Kouyou would react, if he would be shocked or disgusted, disappointed or just… blank. He kept himself from gulping, staring into those black lenses, the face obscured by glasses; with so little light, he could barely see anything reflected. 

In those short few seconds of tense silence as Kouyou waited for him to go on, the glasses seemed to disappear — transparent glass replaced by something solid, cloth in place of wire, blond hair black in the dark… this wasn’t Kouyou. It was the boy, the blind boy who spread his legs for faceless men in videos made by an artist he didn’t know… 

“What is it?” Kouyou said, and pulled the glasses from his face. Breaking the spell, pulling Takanori back to reality, _he’s waiting, what are you going to tell him?_

“I’m bi,” he said abruptly, so sudden that it took Takanori a moment to realize what even came out of his mouth, and he wanted to correct himself, excuse himself, but couldn’t find the words — and Kouyou was staring, face showing confusion and little else. 

“... that’s it?” Kouyou said, “ _That’s_ your big secret?”

Takanori had buried his face in the pillows again, ashamed, but now he looked up. Maybe if he tried, he could read Kouyou like a book, scope his expression for any signs that he might know — but all Takanori could see was mild surprise, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

“Why are you getting worked up over _that_? What’s the big deal about being bi? Lots of people are. You could have told me.” Takanori hid his face, attempted to bury himself in the ocean of sheets — then Kouyou laid a hand on his back, fingers resting warmly against a shoulder blade. His voice was gentle when he spoke, but there was a teasing quality to it again, one that told Takanori he was most definitely smirking. “Is it because we’re in bed together? Because we’ve _slept together_? It would be _weird?_ ” 

It most definitely wasn’t helping, and Takanori could feel his face turning warm from something that wasn’t his own breath. 

“Let me tell you something else to make it even _weirder_ , then,” Kouyou said and crawled closer, lips against Takanori’s ear as he purred, “I’m gay, myself.”

Trust Kouyou to both make and ruin a situation, giving answers to unasked questions while he was at it. 

“ _Not fucking funny_ ,” Takanori gasped, practically bolting away and slapping Kouyou’s shoulder as hard as he could. Kouyou’s laughter just got louder when he missed, fist colliding with the bedpost instead. “Shit!”

“I didn’t know you were so dramatic, Taka,” Kouyou said, voice thick with amusement as he gently took the injured hand in his own.

“... always ruining my name. I hate you.”

“You love me, Taka,” Kouyou cooed, petting his hand like it was a small, fuzzy pet. “And you know it.” That earned Kouyou another slap to the shoulder, hitting the target this time. Chuckling, Kouyou rubbed his shoulder, though the punch probably hadn’t hurt. “You’re just embarrassed. And drunk.”

“And _you’re_ doing this on purpose!”

“Doing what?”

Nothing seemed to wipe the smug look off Kouyou’s face; instead, Takanori turned around in a show of silent anger, curling up, too drunk to want to throw a tantrum. He could hear Kouyou’s laughter die off and game console start up again, soft music playing through weak speakers. Takanori listened to it, the gentle soundtrack and pressing of buttons, Kouyou breathing next to him. After a while, he could feel it lulling him to sleep, body and mind alike drained after the long night.

Just as he was dozing off, Kouyou’s voice came softly, “Thank you.” 

Takanori was too far gone to understand what he was thanking him for.

 

A killer headache had taken up residence in Takanori’s head. At some point after noon he had woken up, slumped against Kouyou, arms wrapped around his larger body — which would have been a wonderful way to start his day, if it hadn’t been for the hangover that began creeping in the moment he moved a muscle.

Takanori hated hangovers, and it was safe to say his mood was a bit foul. They had been drinking all day yesterday, yet Kouyou had gotten out of bed like it was nothing, taking his warmth with him, leaving Takanori a miserable mess sprawled in the sheets. Kouyou had the gall to be cheerful about it too, running about in his sunglasses and oversized shirt like hangovers didn’t exist while Takanori dragged himself out of the bedroom only to collapse on the loveseat.

After all, there was a good reason he didn’t drink more than the weak swill he and Akira chugged down on Fridays.

“Here,” Kouyou said, shoving a cup of tea into Takanori’s free hand. He didn’t say thanks, too busy massaging his temple in a vain attempt at relieving his suffering. “I can get you some painkillers, if you want.”

“Give me ten.”

A snort. “Sure thing, Taka.”

“My name, you jerk. Stop ruining it.” 

He heard Kouyou rummaging through a cupboard, the sound of pills rattling in a container. “I think it’s cute.”

“It isn’t,” Takanori moaned, agonized. Judging by his amused smirk, Kouyou didn’t sympathize with his pain, returning with two painkillers and watching as Takanori failed to swallow them dry, proceeding to burn himself on the tea. “Ow, fuck.”

“If it helps, I think you’re pretty cute, too.”

He should have known better than to take another sip, scalding his tongue again, coughing harshly as the hot drink caught in his throat. It was a miracle the cup didn’t spill burning liquid onto his lap before Kouyou had time to take it out of his hands, setting it on the table and watching as Takanori keeled over. When he finally regained his breath, he croaked out, “Are you actually trying to kill me here?”

“Of course not,” Takanori was aware of the mildly apprehensive look on Kouyou’s face, but he chose to ignore it as his own expression twisted into a scowl. “It was just a joke.”

“Wasn’t fucking funny.”

Even if Kouyou seemed more amused than concerned, something indignant was slipping into his voice. “Are you acting like this because of what you told me last night?”

“What did we talk about— the hell, _no_.” Takanori had almost managed to forget his drunken confession from last night, the way he’d almost revealed the truth and ruined everything, only to talk himself out of it by saying something else entirely.

But Kouyou didn’t seem convinced, hands on his knees as he sat on the edge of the coffee table facing Takanori. “I was meaning to ask you something.”

“Can’t it wait?” Takanori coughed, showing that his airways weren’t cleared yet. “Kind of dying here.”

“No.” He lifted Takanori’s cup of tea, took a small sip. Steam fogged his sunglasses up a little. “Why are you so sensitive about it? You didn’t tell me you’re bi until yesterday, and that was only because you were drunk.”

“Why would I tell you? It wasn’t relevant.” Fuming, Takanori took the cup back, if only because he needed something warm to soothe his headache and now aching throat. The painkillers had yet to kick in. “You didn’t need to know. It’d just make things awkward.”

“Yes, because it would be _weird_ ,” Kouyou teased. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s nothing.”

He watched silently as Takanori drank, but behind those black lenses, his mind was at work. Takanori could feel himself growing uncomfortable, not wanting to talk about it. _Please don’t say it. Please just drop it._

But the prayers went unheard as Kouyou concluded, “It’s because of your parents, isn’t it?”

Damn it all.

Undeterred by the warning glare Takanori was sending from behind the cup, Kouyou went on. “It’s really sad that you let them push you around like that. Do they know?”

“My parents are idiots,” Takanori muttered, gaze lowered. “I told them—” he cut himself off and laughed, bitterly. “No, that’s not true. My dad yelled at me until I was forced to admit it, but for some reason they don’t understand. Or accept it, for that matter.” He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice, barely succeeding. “It’s bullshit.”

“But you put up with it.”

“Yeah, I live under their _roof_. I kind of have to.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Looking up, he saw Kouyou’s expression — determined and unyielding, as if he was fully convinced what he was saying was the complete and utmost truth. Like there were ways to fix Takanori’s current situation without hurting someone in the process.

He tensed in apprehension and set the cup down; there was more to this than Kouyou was letting on. “And what would you have me do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, educate them?” Kouyou said.

“Like it’s that easy?” He sighed. Takanori already knew it would fail; he’d already tried. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It really _is_ that easy, you’re just afraid to do it.” He sighed. “Why won’t you let you be yourself, Taka?” Kouyou almost sounded sad, and he was gripping his knees tightly. “Rebel. Dye your hair like you said you wanted to, wear your earrings. Just stop living a lie and being so damn _docile_ , because it’s really pissing me off.” 

“Oh, so it’s all about _you_ now,” Takanori muttered bitterly, because there it was. It wasn’t the first time Kouyou had brought this up, but it was the first time he hadn’t dropped it when Takanori became visibly uncomfortable. 

Kouyou leaned forward slightly, his voice a hushed, yet harsh tone. All Takanori could see was himself in Kouyou’s sunglasses, his eyes. “You were never meant to be _obedient_ , Taka, and you _know_ it.”

Something snapped.

“You know what?” Takanori growled, pushing Kouyou away, a strange feeling of rage rushing through him. “You’re not one to fucking talk! You live here alone, but you don’t do anything! All you do is play games and drink, you don’t even have a job and your fucking parents pay your rent— you don’t know _anything_ about how it is. I can’t do anything because if I do, they’ll kick me out and you _know_ that! I’ve _told_ you!”

“Like you do a lot yourself, Taka.” Kouyou appeared calm, but his posture was tense. “That’s not the point. You know what I’m saying is true. You keep walking on eggshells around people that hold authority over you, letting them keep you down—”

“For fuck’s sake, Kouyou, will you please leave it?”

“—it’s like you’re not even a person because of your parents, and I’m just sitting here, watching as you slowly suffocate yourself, wondering when you’ll stop running away, if you’ll ever stop being such a damn coward.”

And the word stung. 

_Coward_. That’s all Takanori was, and he knew it. Just a coward. In the eyes of his parents, his manager, his coworkers. In Kouyou’s eyes.

Takanori curled his lip in disdain, unsure of why it hurt so deep. “Coward, huh?” he muttered stiffly. He wanted to hit something. Deep down, a part of him wanted to lash out, something that was small and angry and bitter all at once, unhindered and unfiltered. And it was that part that was in charge as he retaliated, “Maybe I am, but at least I’m not a fucking _whore_!”

That struck a nerve; something dark flickered across Kouyou’s face, and he was gripping his bruised knees so hard that his hands were turning white, fingers deprived of blood with the force. Behind the lenses, his eyes were wide.

“Leave,” was all Kouyou said, his voice eerily calm.


	12. Chapter 12

Rain began pouring just as Takanori stepped out of the train. Small drops at first, hardly noticeable, but soon it escalated into a heavy downpour that forced Takanori to pull his jacket off to use as a makeshift umbrella. He knew he looked foolish. Just another punk kid going home after a wild Saturday night, looking a mess and without anything to protect himself from the weather because he was too stupid to check before leaving. 

The sky was grey. The city was grey. The whole fucking world was grey, just like Takanori’s miserable mood when he finally made it home, sopping wet from head to toe. His mother greeted him quietly then told him to go clean up, but Takanori didn’t miss his father’s reprimanding glare from the living room as he passed through. They were going out today. He had been meaning to leave later, when they were long gone from the apartment. Kouyou would probably have lent him an umbrella, and Takanori wouldn’t have to risk catching a cold. Wouldn’t have to meet his father’s cold stare, his mother’s silent disappointment.

At least the headache had gone away.

Maybe he overreacted. Hell, Takanori knew he had, but Kouyou wouldn’t leave it be, pulling his one weakness out of the blue and bringing it right where it hurt, again and again. _Coward._

And what had Takanori done to shut him up? Called him a whore, right to his face. 

Kouyou hadn’t said much, just told him to leave in a voice that was so cold and sharp it might crack any second, like the way ice becomes brittle. And Takanori had obeyed, getting up and rushing to get dressed, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. He’d even slammed the door as he went, and left the lights on.

But now, as he stood under the warm spray of the shower, all Takanori could feel was regret. The anger remained, yes, but it was directed at himself rather than his friend — if they even were friends anymore. Was there any coming back from a betrayal of this scale?

_Congratulations, Takanori. You gave yourself away._

Likely not. They were done. Takanori would go back to wasting his life away in the store and in his room, altering between slaving away at his mindless job and avoiding the family that refused to accept him for who he was. _Put on your facade and hide yourself away, just like you have for the past year. Just like Kouyou told you to stop doing because you’re drowning, suffocating in denial, and now you’ve pushed him away and exposed your own sins, and probably lost him forever—_

Masked by the water, it took a long while for him to realize his eyes had filled with tears. 

_Pathetic_. Sniffling angrily, he turned the shower off and stepped out, rain washed from his body and cold gone from his bones. He still looked like a drowned cat. And he was still wearing his skull piercings, the ones he’d put on before going to Kouyou’s.

Frowning, Takanori touched one of the piercings, feeling their jagged, metallic surfaces before beginning to take them off. Kouyou had given him a reason to dress up again, the motivation to draw and paint, to express himself through his outfits like he’d once done before the move. Now he just… didn’t want to anymore.

 _Are you going to keep wallowing in self-pity?_ the voice in his head asked as he pushed the plain ring into his gauged ear. _Or are you going to apologize and try to get him back? Maybe it’s not too late._

And maybe it wasn’t. But Kouyou _had_ been the one to start it. Kouyou was the one who didn’t back off, the one who reprimanded him for not having the guts to take the risk, even if it meant losing everything Takanori had. His home, his job, his parents. Kouyou didn’t understand. There was no way he could, because Kouyou didn’t need to worry about such things, he just did what he wanted, damning the consequences simply because there _were_ no consequences. Takanori couldn’t afford that luxury.

_So fuck him, is that it? Are you really that petty?_

He was completely quiet where he stood, staring himself down in the mirror, half dry and still naked. He only snapped out of it as his ears picked up the sound of a door slamming shut, his parents taking their leave. Takanori sighed; alone again, just like he’d wanted to be, and he made his way to his room to get dressed. The cardboard box of art supplies on the floor, and his unfinished painting on his desk. Next to it, his laptop and sketchpad, the one filled with the drawings of blind boy. The other book was still at Kouyou’s place.

Whatever, Takanori thought as he flipped the sketchpad open. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need Kouyou, not when he had blind boy. It’d just be like before they met; Takanori drawing and masturbating to an actor who was guilt-free material, not an actual person he knew, a _friend_. He’d just have to get better at finding more. Lower his standards, strengthen his stomach and power through all the creepy shit he knew would pop up. Not easy, but possible. 

It really was too bad Ishida was such a wuss, Takanori mused as he turned his laptop on. The guy still hadn’t made a sign to indicate he was still alive. No new email in his inbox, and nobody at work had seen hide nor hair of him since he quit. Shame, really, seeing as Ishida was the one with the videos.

Going deeper into the dark web was no pleasant experience, Takanori knew, and there was nausea building steadily in his mouth as he scrolled past page after page of depraved porn. He sat like that for several hours, until the natural light outside began to fade and eventually disappeared altogether, bathing Takanori’s room in the artificial light from his monitor. He hadn’t turned the lights on; it felt wrong to look at these things in anything other than darkness. He was still searching when he heard the telltale sound of the front door closing shut, signaling his parents' return. It took a tense fifteen minutes before he heard them moving to their bedroom and the apartment went completely silent once more. Neither of them came in to tell him good night.

A quick glance at the time told him it barely was past midnight, and so he resumed his search in the file sharing forums, scrolling past pictures and thumbnails as fast as he could, not wanting to see more than he had to… and then he stopped.

Slowly, Takanori scrolled back up. Was he seeing things, or was that really… 

No. That was definitely Kouyou in the thumbnail. It was small, unfocused and slightly grainy, but it was definitely— _probably_ him. Pressing the link, Takanori found himself face to face with a video, the first in a long while… but it wasn’t blind boy. It was _Kouyou_ in the thumbnail, curled up with arms curved around his legs, looking up at the camera with wide open eyes that didn’t look at all sensitive, even for his bright surroundings. 

The post dated back three years; Kouyou’d have to have been eighteen, then. This might have been one of his earlier works, before the persona was established. As he downloaded the video, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from that face. Eighteen… Kouyou looked so… young. 

Strange, but Takanori found he could almost read fear in the expression. Performance anxiety, he guessed; he couldn’t blame Kouyou for that. Just starting out, uncertain of his own capabilities… a high school dropout… what was he like, back then? 

The video was only a minute long. Pressing play, Takanori braced himself.

No dreary black room this time, just a living room, brightly lit and littered with furniture. The camera was leagues away from being high quality, its resolution bordering on corny. The video itself was unsteady, frame shaking as it moved through the room, focusing mostly on the wooden floor boards. Clearly the work of an amateur. But there was Kouyou, sitting in an armchair as the camera was pulled up to fix on him. He was curled up, face buried in his knees, messy hair in a shade of blackish blue spilling over ripped jeans. His frame tensed visibly as the cameraman moved closer, coming to a stop standing right above him.

“Hey kid,” came a voice. “Look at me.” And Kouyou finally looked up, dark eyes narrowing only for a moment at the bright light as he faced the cameraman, a person Takanori couldn’t see, then turned his gaze to the lens, capturing the moment from the thumbnail. Behind the layer of momentary anxiety, there was no true fear in his eyes, just a steely defiance. It really was him.

The hidden man laughed. Kouyou frowned, but his gaze didn’t waver, staying fixed on the camera all the while, seemingly staring straight back at Takanori. And Takanori almost _winced_ , though he didn’t know why, as the man said, “I made it.” More laughter. “I fuckin’ _made it_.” 

Kouyou was completely still. The video ended. He hadn’t even blinked once. 

What the hell was that? 

Takanori hadn’t known what to expect, but he’d been hoping for more than nothing at all. Confused, he closed the video, looking back to the original post to skim through the comments — nothing of value. The description was useless. None of the commentary mentioned blind boy’s name, just more people wanting answers, and the obscene things they wanted to do to that _kid_ , that young face, his pretty mouth. And all Takanori was left with was more questions, along with the uneasy feeling in his stomach.

 

It always surprised Takanori just how easy it was to fall back into his old routines. Get up, stay out of the way, get to work. But even so, his mind was occupied with what he had seen. Kouyou, younger, softer and without hurting eyes, staring up at a man he couldn’t see, into a camera lens with something that could only be described as anger. And he wanted to know, but he couldn’t ask. Especially now that their friendship was ruined, by Kouyou’s prodding and Takanori’s poor choice of words.

Kouyou didn’t come by today, either. He usually walked past the store on Mondays, but today he was nowhere to be seen. Which probably was for the better, as Takanori wouldn’t have to face him again, but he did wonder if Kouyou was intentionally avoiding him. Would it give himself too much credit to imagine Kouyou moping about in the apartment over their fight?

Though he knew it wasn’t a great idea, Takanori went to Kato’s coffee shop for lunch like he used to. Kouyou would often come meet him, but today he wasn’t there. Though part of him had been hoping they would meet, it still made Takanori breathe a sigh of relief. 

But he was lonely. Takanori picked at his food, checked his phone. Nothing from Kouyou, or from anyone at all. He looked out the window, wondering if Kouyou would stop by at some point.

“Is the food not to your liking today?”

He jumped, not having noticed Kato walking up to his table, and shook his head. “No, no, the food’s good as always,” Takanori insisted. “Just not really in the mood to eat, I guess.”

“I see,” she said, then gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “Too bad. You need to eat. Get some nutrition, you look like you need it, small as you are.” 

“Right, right,” Takanori muttered, slightly offended but not wanting to lash out at her. He grabbed his chopsticks, shoving a small piece of food in his mouth. “See? I’m eating.”

“Wonderful,” she beamed, leaving his table at the sound of the entrance’s bells jingling. Takanori remained, staring at his food. He hadn’t even ordered coffee today; it had completely slipped his mind. Not that he wanted any, by this point. 

He stared out the window as he ate. The day was bright and warm, summer at its hottest. He had worn his sunglasses, but part of him wanted to leave them, throw them into a wall, or something. Though he wouldn’t. That would be a waste.

He didn’t even notice that someone had walked up to his table, but paused when they slid into the empty chair opposite his own, and Takanori looked up. 

“Hey,” Midori said.

The day was just getting better and better. He swallowed, not quite able to wipe the sour look from his face. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “And ask you about the other day. Did you stay?” Takanori couldn’t help but feel his mood darkening further. Yes, he had. He probably shouldn’t have. She must’ve noticed, because she raised her hands in the air slightly. “Not prying or anything. Just worried about Kou, is all.”

“... I did,” Takanori said. He really regretted not getting that coffee now. “Still don’t understand what your deal is.”

“Was he drinking?”

“He’s always drinking.”

“Yeah, but what was he drinking?”

“Wine.” Takanori sighed. He was too tired to deal with this. “Why?”

“I see.” Midori was quiet for a moment, voice softening when she spoke. “He only drinks wine on special days.”

”And it was a special day, yeah, he said.” He was picking at his food again, patience starting to wear thin. He kind of wanted to slap her. Just a little bit. Mostly just to vent his frustration. What was it with people and not being able to just _say_ things lately? 

“What’d he tell you? The dog story?” His only answer was a steely, silent gaze, but she took it as confirmation. “Thought so. That’s what he told me, too…”

“Okay, stop,” Takanori said, putting his cutlery down. “If you want to tell me something, fine, but _get to the point._ ”

“Right, the point.” She looked down, folded her hands on the table. “The point is that I’m leaving Tokyo soon. And I worry for him. I want to talk to Kouyou, tell him that I’m going away, but since he doesn’t talk to me anymore...”

“And why won’t he?”

She bit her lip for a moment. “Because he lied to me too, and I found out.” That gave him pause. When Midori looked up again, her eyes were sad. “The dog story? That’s a lie. Tell me something, Matsumoto, how much do you think you know about him? Does he ever talk about his life before he moved here?”

“... no, he doesn’t.” Takanori was uncertain as he thought back, remembering all that Kouyou had told him, all that he’d seen in the videos. The young, dark eyes staring up at him, unblinking and angry. “He told me he dropped out of high school, that he stopped listening to music, his dog died two years ago.”

“Two years ago, that was the day that…” she muttered to herself, before meeting Takanori’s gaze again. “Do you follow the news?”

Takanori raised a brow. “Not really. Why?”

“Never mind. You need to take care of him, okay? Promise. It’s important. Not for my sake, but for Kouyou’s.” Then Midori stood up, giving him a short bow. “Thank you, Matsumoto. And tell him that I’m sorry.”

“Hold on,” Takanori said, grabbing onto her arm to stop her before she could leave. “What do you _know_? Why can’t you just say it?”

“Because,” she hissed, attempting to tear her arm free from his grasp, her own anger slipping through the cracks; she was clearly frustrated, too. “It’s not my secret to tell. And because if I do, he’ll shut you out. Why do you think I’m here?”

Biting back the need to growl at her, Takanori let Midori go. She knew Kouyou’s secrets, that much was obvious… but she wouldn’t let him know. “His eyes,” he said, and Midori froze. “They weren’t always like that.”

“No,” she said. “They weren’t.”

“So something happened.”

“Yes.” Midori sighed. “But it’s not my place. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.” And with that she walked away, stopping momentarily to say something to Kato before she left, sending a last glance Takanori’s way through the window, and then she was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Takanori didn’t want to draw anymore.

It had been a week, and he hadn’t heard from Kouyou at all. He’d had lunch at Akira’s coffee shop for the remainder of the week, avoiding having to bump into Kouyou or Midori. But Akira noticed how Takanori’s mood was sourer than usual, even for a weekday. Not like Akira seemed to be in particularly high spirits either. He even cancelled on Takanori again that Friday, even though it was the middle of summer and he had no classes.

Not that Takanori cared much. There wasn’t much he had cared about the last few days, except his searches for more of blind boy that had lead nowhere. There was one thing he was certain of, however: Ishida had lied. At least partially. Hours wasted on searching had led him to nothing, so wherever Ishida had found his videos, it sure as hell hadn’t been the internet. And now had come the point where Takanori wanted to quit. He wanted to lie down under a rock somewhere and cease to exist, but all he could do was lie on his bed in his dark room and stare up at the ceiling. 

His father had grown even tenser around him lately, if that was even possible. Akira had either lost interest or was too busy to hang out. Nobody at work talked to Takanori more than absolutely necessary, and the manager’s gaze haunted him at all times when he was there. And Kouyou was… well, he was gone.

 _Why did we fight, again?_ Takanori wondered. _Oh right. Because he called you out on your shit, and you insulted him._ Right. It all seemed so long ago, now. It had been so petty, and though he didn’t want to — was too afraid — to talk to him again, Takanori still longed for the sanctuary Kouyou had given him. Even if he truly didn’t know anything about the guy, aside from blind boy, aside from what he’d been told. 

He only drank wine on special occasions. Two years ago was a day that something happened. Kouyou’s wide, young eyes staring up at the camera. _He lied to me, too._ Midori’s voice, echoing in his head.

She was leaving. It could be a good excuse to get talking again, assuming Kouyou would even allow it; he _had_ shut Midori out. And he wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with Takanori anymore either… 

Special occasions. A dead dog, wine. Sighing, Takanori got up; it was late, his parents had gone to bed. He turned his laptop on, opened his hidden folder, the videos greeting him. Watching, drawing… it had all become so routine by now. But he remembered that video with the wine, the one in which Kouyou— blind boy first had lost control over himself, remembered the wine and blood flowing down his lithe body… the way he bit a faceless man’s fingers and laughed like a wild animal. 

He found himself thinking back to that video he had found, the one with a young Kouyou with healthy eyes and a stubborn demeanor. The voice of the man. _I made it._ Made what? What happened to his eyes that made it a necessity to wear sunglasses all the time? 

There would be no answers tonight, he knew. It was Sunday and he had work in the morning. But in the middle of brushing his teeth, Takanori’s ears picked up a sound, and he paused. Spitting toothpaste into the sink, he quickly rinsed his mouth, recognizing the sound for what it was; the telltale vibration from his phone that still lay abandoned in the pocket of the jeans he’d worn yesterday. He’d silenced it and left it there last night, not touching it since, as nobody would contact him anyway. But now someone was texting him. Pulling out the phone, Takanori flipped it open, screen lighting up to show him a long row of messages, as well as a few missed calls. All from Kouyou. He hesitated.

The texts had been pouring in all day. It was past midnight, and they were still coming. Shit, he thought, something must’ve happened. Deciding to bite the bullet, Takanori opened the messages, starting with the oldest ones. Tentative attempts at restoring contact so they could get on speaking terms again. He read through them quickly. _Been a while. Haven’t heard from you. We should talk._

When there had been no reply, the questions started coming. _Are you there? Why aren’t you answering? Please don’t ignore me. I need to know why you said that to me._ Then, apologies, growing more and more pleading as time went on. _Please come back. I’m sorry. Let’s forget this happened. I can make it up to you._

Those were sent in the evening, and the next ones didn’t start up again until a few hours ago. But they were… different. Wrong. _You were right. Just stop ignoring me. I need you. I can’t lose another friend._

The slowly growing desperation in his messages made way for something else entirely, Takanori holding his breath as he read on: _You want me. I know. How you’ve been watching me, but it’s okay. I’ll let you. Come back. You can fuck me if you want to._

 _You can fuck me, if you want to._ Takanori swallowed thickly. Fuck, what the hell was Kouyou doing? He almost scrambled to send a reply, one he knew was insufficient, but he didn’t care.

Kouyou’s answer came soon enough, and the phone vibrating in his hands was expected, but it still made Takanori flinch. _Anything you want._ His jaw tightened as he read the text, and he made up his mind, quickly sending an answer.

_coming over_

 

Getting on one of the last trains for the night, Takanori made his way towards Kouyou’s apartment block. He received no new messages on the short trip, and he knew he should call, make sure Kouyou was — maybe not okay, but at least alive, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. When the train arrived at the station, Takanori was quick to get off, his pace hurried. He wasn’t sure if he was anxious or excited about what would meet him.

When he finally made it to the apartment, he gave the door a gentle knock. When there was no answer, he opened the door, not surprised to find it unlocked. Looking in he found Kouyou’s living room bathed in darkness, and Takanori made a face at the sharp smell of alcohol hanging in the air. He must definitely be drunk, then. 

“I’m here,” he called out, slightly nervous. Again there was no response, so Takanori let himself in. “Kouyou?” he asked, a bit louder this time. “Are you home?”

More silence. Frowning, he flipped the lights on, and he had to suppress a surprised gasp at the alarming amount of empty beer bottles strewn about the room. Takanori didn’t miss the empty bottle of wine that stood between them. Dread was pooling in his stomach, but there was no sign of Kouyou, so discarding his boots and jacket, he cautiously made his way through the mess to the bedroom door, knocking sharply only as a warning before he all but threw the door open.

He was met with more darkness, but with the light pouring in from the living room, he could make out Kouyou’s prone form on the bed. At first he assumed, or maybe hoped, that Kouyou was asleep, but the light reflected in his naked eyes told him otherwise. Takanori frowned; he knew that Kouyou should be shielding himself from the sudden light, that he should be turning away rather than just lie there and look at him, at the bright light behind him. The concern was firmly taking root along with a sense of alarm when Kouyou didn’t even blink, simply continued to stare up at him with an unfocused gaze. His eyes must have been hurting like hell.

“There you are,” Takanori breathed, shutting the door behind him as he approached, Kouyou’s body slipping back into the darkness. “How long have you been lying there?”

Kouyou didn’t make a sound, keeping still where he lay, but his voice betrayed a drunken slur when he finally answered, “A while.”

Takanori pressed his lips together, considering how to assess the situation. Sure, he was used to Kouyou drinking, but he had never actually been drunk around him before, as far as he could tell. But the shut blinds left the room in almost total darkness, so he moved to open them enough to allow himself to see — not well, as his eyes were still adjusting — when there was a rustle of fabric. Before Takanori could get a chance to respond, arms were sliding around his waist. He froze.

Behind him, Kouyou was warm, his arms unyielding as he gently pulled at Takanori, inching them towards the bed. “Wait, what are you—” Takanori had raised his arms defensively, unsure of what to do; his mind went blank when one of Kouyou’s hands slid further down to clumsily start fumbling with the zipper of his jeans, and he struggled. Those hands were _way too close_ to his crotch. 

Tearing himself loose from the hold, Takanori spun around, shoving Kouyou away in the process. In his chest, his heart was beating hurriedly from something that resembled fear; and now he was practically blind once more, the faint street lights from outside doing a poor job of illuminating the dim room.

Fuck this, Takanori thought, he needed to actually _see_ , and stalking to the door he flipped the lights on. Kouyou had stumbled back onto the bed, immediately turning away as the room was lit, eyes squeezed shut. It calmed the unsettled feeling in Takanori’s gut somewhat; a sign of relative normalcy.

Hesitantly he approached the bed again, taking note of the cell phone by the pillow, the empty wineglass on the bedside table — and Kouyou looked up again. Something in the way he looked at Takanori made a chill crawl down his spine. Though Kouyou’s eyes were wide open, they were blank, almost vacant, his pupils constricted. Takanori had to restrain himself from pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” Kouyou murmured, voice uneven as he reached up to shakily stroke Takanori’s cheek. “Don’t you want it?”

Takanori pushed the hand away. “You— I—” Fuck, he had to pull himself together. “Shit, I mean, what happened? How much did you _drink?_ ”

Kouyou didn’t back down, hands running up Takanori’s shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric. “Don’t mind that,” he replied, “I just… I missed you.” He bit his lip, bowed his head and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Takanori’s stomach. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Takanori sighed, awkwardly stroking Kouyou’s head, his long hair. An ugly sense of guilt was unravelling in his gut. “Look, Kouyou,” he began, unsure of what to say. “It’s… it’s okay. But you need to get this shit out of your system. You’re really drunk. Go sleep, and we can talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Talk...”

“Yeah, like you wanted to.”

From his stomach, there was a soft hum. He took it as affirmation, catching Kouyou’s wrists in an attempt to free himself, but Kouyou didn’t let go of his shirt. “Come on.” He sighed when there was no answer. “Kouyou?”

“You were right,” Kouyou mumbled, the words so slurred Takanori could barely make them out. His fingers were tightening, almost clawing at Takanori’s chest through the thin shirt, and he had to keep himself from wincing, the grip too strong for Takanori to tear himself free. “It was stupid, but you were right... it’s okay... you’re just a coward… I’m just a whore.” Kouyou let go then, only to grab hold of Takanori’s collar before finally looking up, meeting Takanori’s startled gaze. “I can be your whore.”

Takanori didn’t get time to respond before he was pulled down, Kouyou’s lips clashing against his own. He was too taken aback to process anything but the bitter taste of alcohol and salt that pressed against his tongue; he could almost taste the desperation in the short kiss, along with something that was distinctively _Kouyou._

“The fuck,” was all he could say when he managed to break free. Kouyou’s hands were still tight in his shirt, the fine fabric wrinkling between his fingers, but there was a look on his face that tried to communicate _this is fine, this is what I want, too_ … his mouth flushing red, eyes lidded but pupils still small in the bright room, gaze still clouded.

Then Kouyou pulled him closer again, and his voice was a warm, well-practiced purr. “Yes,” he breathed, almost moaned. “Exactly.”

And he wasn’t sure when he had dropped his defenses, but somehow Kouyou had managed to raise his long legs up to lock them around Takanori’s hips; when he lay back onto the mattress, he forced Takanori to follow, forced him to fall forwards and straddle his— his friend, both hands on the bed either side of Kouyou’s head. In a split second, Takanori couldn’t help but think it was funny how this way, it seemed as if _he_ were the one who was in control, that _he_ was the dominant one. But Kouyou didn’t waste time, his hold on the shirt still firm.

A week of silence, and _this_ is what it had lead to—

Takanori tried to pull away from the second kiss, he really did, he knew how terrible of an idea it would be to just let this happen, but… there was a part of him that didn’t want it to stop. This beneath him was his friend, yes, but it was also his muse, _blind boy_ , the man in the sunglasses, Kouyou — he had imagined this, dreamed of it, even, for months. And Kouyou seemed dead drunk, too. It was likely he wouldn’t even be able to remember it in the morning.

His breath was heavy when they broke apart again, Kouyou open and inviting underneath him, and it felt so much less wrong than it should have. But he hesitated, and even in his drunken state Kouyou recognized the way Takanori tried to hold back.

“What are you waiting for?” Kouyou said, lazily brushing straight locks of hair out of Takanori’s face. They immediately fell back in place. “Do you need me to do it?” 

“Do what?” Takanori said, the uncertainty clear in his voice. Kouyou didn’t answer, merely gave a haughty smirk before throwing himself forward, legs finally releasing Takanori as he rolled them over. It took Takanori a moment to comprehend what had just happened, Kouyou’s weight firm on his hips, slender hands running up his chest. Takanori breathed heavily when Kouyou leaned forward, pressing lips to his throat. 

“This better?”

All he could do was release a strangled moan as one of those hands trailed down to fiddle with his zipper again, pulling it down intentionally slowly, and Takanori found himself thrusting against the hand instinctively. 

Kouyou’s mouth smiled against his neck. “Thought so.”

All Takanori could do was rest his hands on Kouyou’s thighs, fingers circling the smooth fabric of Kouyou’s leggings. He needed to stop this. He needed to shove him off, and soon, because it was _wrong_. This wouldn’t fix anything; it’d just make matters a thousand times worse, Takanori knew, but—

But then Kouyou was pressing their bodies together, grinding against Takanori’s half-hard cock and it was all too easy to drown those thoughts and pretend it didn’t matter. Giving in, Takanori grabbed hold of Kouyou’s hips and roughly shoved him off and onto his back, resuming his position on top. He allowed it when Kouyou pulled him back down, when that mouth searched for his; he let Kouyou’s hands explore the skin under his shirt, short fingernails clawing at his chest. He had dreamed about this for months, Takanori thought as he slowly caressed Kouyou’s side, slipping a hand down his leggings and underwear to feel the soft skin of his ass, humming appreciatively when Kouyou lifted his hips to help him along. He wanted it. Why refuse it now that it was about to happen?

A small tug and his jeans were being pulled down to his knees, followed shortly by Kouyou impatiently dragging his shirt up. Yeah, why deny himself this? He kept his eyes off Kouyou’s face as he was slowly stripped of clothing, ignoring the vacant look in those dark eyes. _It’s only for tonight_ , Takanori told himself. _I deserve this. He wants it, too. He offered._

 _To be your whore for the night?_ a sharp voice whispered in his head, _To apologize through sex? Maybe he only offered because he’s drunk, and it’s the only thing he could think of, you don’t know what he has been through before, you don’t know him—_

He shoved the thoughts away. Pushed them into a dark corner of his mind when Kouyou locked his legs around Takanori’s waist again, and kissing Kouyou viciously, he harshly tangled his hands in Kouyou’s long, golden hair that he had helped dye— and Takanori growled, frustrated with himself. He shouldn’t feel guilty for taking Kouyou up on his offer. He shouldn’t hate himself for escaping back to his sanctuary, for going through with something he’d wanted for so long.

They were _friends._ And yes, maybe he was drunk, but Kouyou would _understand_ , Takanori thought, reaching down to slip a hand into the front of Kouyou’s leggings, down his boxers, grabbing the heated flesh there only to find it — limp.

And he froze. It served as an ugly reminder of just how potent the alcohol in Kouyou’s blood had to be, on his tongue, the saltiness on his lips that Takanori had assumed was just the taste of his skin, his sweat, anything but that. Because tears didn’t belong in his fantasies. They had no place in his haven. Takanori let go, and he was clenching his jaw almost painfully hard when he finally sat up, meeting Kouyou’s eyes. There was no question in them, no life, only a hollow emptiness.

He wasn’t crying, but his gaze was fixed someplace up on the ceiling. Far too close to the lamp; it was probably blinding him.

Fuck. Takanori was a _monster_. What was he doing? He had seen the proof of Kouyou’s drunkenness, the empty bottles of beer and wine; he knew that there couldn’t be a shred of sobriety left in him by this point — and yet, Takanori had still let himself do this, had almost taken advantage of Kouyou in such a delicate state… all because he had an obsession, a stupid fucking crush, and now he had stooped to Ishida’s level and nearly—

No. He wouldn’t do it. He’d stopped himself before it could happen. Getting off the bed, Takanori quickly gathered his discarded clothes, dressing himself. He ignored Kouyou’s silent stare, turning the lamp off. Going back to the living room he turned the lights on, leaving the door ajar so a small amount of light could trickle in the bedroom. It wasn’t a solution by any means, but it would be easier on Kouyou’s eyes while still allowing Takanori to see.

Kouyou was sitting up in bed when he returned, eyes lowered, but he looked up when Takanori entered, his unspoken question evident even with how hazy his gaze was. “Why did you go?” he asked, wavering slightly where he sat, balance lost. Takanori could barely look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Takanori forced out, and he meant it. “I’m sorry.”

But Kouyou didn’t understand. “What for?” he slurred, leaning forward slightly, towards Takanori. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional, or if Kouyou’s balance was simply too off to keep him upright. “You don’t want sex?”

Takanori could only shake his head, gently taking Kouyou’s shoulder to keep him from toppling over. “You’re really drunk, Kou… you should sleep.”

At that, Kouyou chuckled softly. “You never called me that,” he whispered, so low Takanori barely caught it. “If not for the sex, why’d you come…?”

“You wanted to talk to me,” Takanori said. “I was about to go to bed… and you were saying those things.” The text stood out clear as day in his memory. _You can fuck me if you want to._ “I got concerned. I just wanted to see if you were alright.” 

“You taste minty,” Kouyou murmured, leaning heavily against Takanori’s hand. If he hadn’t known him better, Takanori would have interpreted the sound Kouyou made as something akin to a sob. “You’re way too nice, Taka,” he muttered, covering his eyes with his hand. “I’m sorry… your name… you always tell me not to ruin it.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You go to bed, alright? We can talk tomorrow.”

But Kouyou shook his head. “I lied to you,” he said, and it gave Takanori pause.

_He lied to me too._

“I didn’t mean to,” Kouyou began, “but when they called me… and they told me to come, to update me—” Kouyou cut himself off, head lowered, face disappearing under the long hair.

“Who?” Takanori asked, confused, shaking Kouyou’s shoulder lightly when he didn’t continue. “Who called you?”

“But they hadn’t found anything, and I got back home… and I was angry, and lonely, and then I started drinking and I just… I couldn’t stop.”

“Kouyou…”

“... it’s Sunday… you have work, and it’s late, and the trains don’t run… I’m so sorry…” 

Takanori sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take the couch and then go to work in the morning, alright?”

“Alright…” 

He helped Kouyou lie down, pulling the blankets up to cover him, pausing as he noticed the phone still lying by the pillow. He wasn’t sure just how much Kouyou would remember in the morning, but…

Maybe Takanori could undo tonight. Grabbing the phone, he flipped it open. “Hey Kouyou, one last thing,” he said, shaking Kouyou slightly; he was already slipping away into sleep. “Kou? Your phone.”

Without questioning why, Kouyou took the phone out of his hand and typed out the code to unlock it, keeping his eyes shut as he did so. His hand was limp when Takanori took the phone back.

“Good night.”

There was no more movement from Kouyou, so he left the bedroom. Seating himself on the small couch, it took Takanori a moment to navigate the screen, the phone being a different model than his own. Sent messages. Contacts. Mom. Dad. Someone named Aki, several people whose names were unfamiliar. Kai. Weird name. He found Midori’s name as well as his own.

Takanori stared at the messages Kouyou had sent him for a while before deleting the last few ones. Kouyou didn’t need to know what he had offered in his drunken haze; he didn’t need to know what they had almost done. Hopefully he would wake up the next morning and not remember any of it, maybe think it all was some dream.

Going back to the inbox, Takanori slowly scrolled through the inbox, skimmed through some texts — he found a sister, a few drinking buddies… Takanori turned the phone about in his hands. Whoever this Kai person was, Kouyou had apparently talked to them a lot, judging by the sheer amount of sent and received messages, as compared to the others. Curious, he opened a conversation.

It didn’t take long before he regretted it. 

_Need you. Come over_ , Kai asked. _Not tonight_ , Kouyou replied. Though many, their exchanges were short and to the point; Kai asking for companionship, Kouyou either refusing it or saying he would be on his way. 

It brought ugly thoughts back into his mind. _You were right_ , Kouyou had said. _I’m just a whore._ Takanori frowned. He remembered the hickeys, always present on Kouyou’s neck, the ones he had always wondered about… remembered the way Kouyou had reacted when he’d first called him that, a week ago.

 _First nearly taking advantage of him, now invading his privacy._ And it was true. He had no right to go through Kouyou’s phone like this, and he knew nothing about Kouyou’s life apart from what he’d been told. Sighing, Takanori closed the messages, snapping the phone shut and tossing it onto the table, next to a pair of sunglasses and a drained beer bottle. It was nearly three in the morning and he needed sleep.

He was willing to stay on the tiny couch for tonight.


	14. Chapter 14

It was the sound of his phone going off that woke Takanori that morning, loud rock music startling him out of his light sleep. He had twisted and turned seemingly for hours on the small sofa, unable to sleep, both due to his mind being occupied with the occurrence of the night and physical discomfort.

Not that it mattered, now that he was awake. The soft lights filtering through the blinds told him it had to be early morning, and sure enough, when Takanori finally dug his phone from his jeans pocket, it informed him that it was six thirty. And his dad was calling.

He didn’t want to pick up, but he supposed it would only make bad worse, so Takanori steeled himself and answered the phone. He barely got his greeting in before being cut off by his father’s angry voice. Takanori grimaced at the sound. It was way too early for this.

“Hey, dad,” he greeted once his father stopped yelling into the receiver, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

_“Where are you? Do you know how worried we were when your mother went to wake you and found your room empty?”_

“I can explain that,” Takanori tried, “I’m at a friend’s place. Something came up, and I had to run.”

_“You could have left a note!”_

“Didn’t have the time. Had to catch a train. It was really late…” He wondered if Kouyou was still sleeping. “Look, dad, I’m sorry. But it was kind of an emergency situation.” 

On the other end of the line, his father sighed in annoyance. _“You and I will talk about this later.”_

“Of course.”

 _“Good.”_ The line went dead. Sighing, Takanori snapped his phone shut, throwing it back onto the table. Maybe he could catch some more sleep before he had to get going to work, or… maybe the best choice was to take the day off and talk things out with Kouyou. After last night, he guessed they both had a lot of explaining to do.

That is, unless Kouyou didn’t remember. Reaching out, Takanori grabbed Kouyou’s phone from the table, flicking it open. Locked, of course. The digital clock ticked on. 06.33. 06.34. He knew that trying to fall asleep again on the loveseat would be next to useless, but there was still an hour and a half left before work. Being so close to the store left him with more time, since there was no need to take the train. Might as well get up. Enjoy the quiet morning in Kouyou’s apartment after so long of being away.

And maybe clean up a little, Takanori decided, catching sight of the empty cans and bottles that still littered the place. It could begin making up for what he’d almost done, if nothing else. Slowly he got to work, picking up and stuffing the bottles into a plastic bag as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to wake Kouyou. He scrubbed away sticky stains on the countertop where a bottle had been knocked over, wiped a long-since dried puddle of wine off the floor. 

He wondered what had happened that made Kouyou open a bottle of wine. But he remembered what Kouyou had said, in his drunken haze — someone called him in to update him on something, only to tell him nothing, and it had left Kouyou upset enough to spend the rest of the day drinking… and then he’d somehow gotten the idea of resorting to fix their… friendship by apologizing via sex.

Takanori wasn’t sure what to make of it. He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms. Aside from some shuffling from the hallway, presumably neighbours leaving for work, the apartment was dead silent.

Carefully he opened the door to Kouyou’s room. The open blinds were letting the morning light through the window, and Kouyou lay buried under the sheets in his large bed, long hair sprawling over the pillows, shining bright as the sunlight hit it. He was faced away from the window, completely still, sleeping like a rock. Takanori let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, heavily resting against the doorframe.

God, he wanted to stay. He wanted to sleep in that warm bed again, nestled close to Kouyou’s comfortable body, where he felt he belonged, but he knew that he couldn’t. At least, not yet. Takanori looked at his phone again. If he wanted to be absent from work, now was the time to call it in. Sure, he’d piss the manager off, Takanori knew, but he didn’t care. There were bigger things to worry about than his manager’s already shifty opinion on his work morale.

He ran a hand through his own straight black locks, watching Kouyou’s still form on the bed, his golden hair. Maybe, he thought.

Surviving the manager’s yelling was easy enough. If Takanori could make it through his father’s angry screaming at the crack of dawn, he could deal with his prissy boss no problem. Yes, he knew he shouldn’t call in sick at the last minute, yes, he knew it would mess up everyone else’s day that he was so selfish (though as far as Takanori was concerned, everyone else could go fuck themselves). It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, anyway. Closing his phone, Takanori turned on the TV to make time pass. He kept the volume low, nearly muted, but it didn’t make much of a difference. There was nothing interesting running this early in the morning on Kouyou’s already meager selection of TV channels. He was only half-watching when he spotted something familiar in the corner of his eye, in the heap that served as a makeshift bookcase for books and magazines.

Takanori got up. He’d never paid much attention to Kouyou’s pile of books. The small bit of floor was cluttered with random books, gaming magazine, leaflets and mystery novels alike, and — he sighed — his sketchpad. 

It had crossed his mind that Kouyou might have thrown it out, or maybe burned it, but there it was. Safe and sound. Gingerly Takanori pulled it out of the pile, flipping through its pages, coming face to face with several depictions of Kouyou, as well as his doodles. He’d almost forgotten about the book, truth be told, but now he knew where it was. Placing it back on the heap, Takanori returned to the sofa. He didn’t feel like drawing.

At some point he had managed to doze off, because the next thing he knew the sunlight was filling the entire room, and there was a painful kink in his neck. “Ah, shit,” Takanori grumbled, cracking his neck. Stretching, he grabbed his phone to check the time — it was a little past ten. But halfway in reaching for the remote, intending to turn the TV off, he paused; there was a slight sound of shuffling, of bare feet on wooden flooring—

and a door creaking open. Slowly, he turned, and sure enough — there stood Kouyou, with messy hair and bleary, narrowed eyes, a blanket from his bed draped across his shoulders, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the window. At the sight of Takanori, he stopped in his tracks. Something dark flickered across his face for a moment, before just as quickly going away. 

“Takanori,” he said, and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “What are… why are you here?”

“You don’t remember?” Takanori forced a placating smile, grabbing the pair of sunglasses from the table as he stood. “You asked me to come,” he answered, handing the shades over; Kouyou hesitantly took them, sliding them on. “And the trains stopped running, so I figured I’d just stay the night.”

It took a moment before Kouyou answered, rubbing his forehead, an alcohol-induced headache no doubt settling in his head. “I don’t remember… I texted you all day, but you never replied,” he said, watching as Takanori began to rummage through his kitchen cupboards.

“And that’s all? Forgot everything else?” Successfully producing a box of painkillers, Takanori grabbed a glass, filling it with water. 

“... seems that way.” 

“I hadn’t checked my phone all day.” He handed a couple tablets, along with the glass to Kouyou, who took them without a word. “I was getting ready for bed when I saw you’d messaged me. So I came over, and found you dead drunk… so I stayed.” He shrugged. “Besides, as I said, the trains had stopped running and I didn’t want to pay for a cab.” Kouyou was silent, sipping the water slowly. “... and you wanted to talk. What happened?”

Kouyou sighed then. “Bad day.”

“Bad enough to get that drunk?”

“Bad enough.”

“Anything happen?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Kouyou sat down on his sofa, grabbing his phone from the table and looking at it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Did you know it’s been a year since I moved in here?”

“Feels like you’ve lived here a lot longer.”

He chuckled tiredly. “Feels that way to me, too.” Takanori took a seat next to him, careful to keep his distance. Or as much distance as he could, on a sofa so small. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Called in sick. Thought I might have to take care of your drunk ass anyway, so might as well spend a sick day.” When Kouyou didn’t look amused, he folded his hands in his lap, forcing the dread from his voice. “I wanted to apologize. For what I said.”

“For calling me a whore, you mean.”

Takanori made a face, and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that. Look…”

Kouyou interrupted him. “I don’t want your excuses.”

“I don’t want to give you any,” Takanori insisted, but he couldn’t say the truth and he knew it. “... you were right. About me, I mean,” he said instead. “That I’m just a… coward. That I let people walk all over me, and it made me angry, because I knew it was true. So I guess I just lashed out.” He laughed dryly, Kouyou silent beside him. “And, well… I didn’t mean to say that to you. But—”

“You’re stalling,” Kouyou said, frowning. “Just say it.”

“... but you’re always so… I don’t know how to say it. Flirty, I guess?”

Kouyou didn’t look amused, watching him intently through his sunglasses. “So I’m a slut, is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No!” he exclaimed, “I mean, no. Or kind of, but not in a bad way!” Takanori covered his face with his hands, whatever eloquent speech he had been planning gone. God, he was embarrassing himself. He needed a second to rearrange his thoughts. “It’s just… you have this really easygoing nature. You’re so open, so _free_ , and you share your bed with me, you don’t wear pants and act like there’s nothing weird about it. You say things, and then you have… shit. I’m sorry.”

“I have _what_ , Matsumoto?”

“And then you always have those hickeys,” Takanori finished quietly. “On your neck. So… I don’t know. I guess I just accumulated all that information and… threw them at you, because I was pissed.” Kouyou reached up to run a hand over his neck, over the small bruises Takanori knew to be there. “So, that’s why. I got pissed because you were right, and I was… childish.”

“I see,” was all Kouyou could say, voice low. His gaze was distant.

“... but if I had known that you’d get so upset, I would never have said it.”

Kouyou hummed in response, sipped his water, and looked away. _So that’s it_ , Takanori thought, even as heavy as it made him feel. He had failed. Screwed up royally. Rising from the sofa, he was intending to take his leave when Kouyou spoke up, “It wasn’t really your fault.”

Immediately he stilled. “What?”

“I was pushing you, I know. You were in a bad mood. Hungover. Much like I am now, I guess. Look, I don’t think you really meant it, it’s just...” he sighed, put his glass of water down, and Takanori slowly took a seat again. “There’s a reason why I moved away. A few years ago, a… rumour got out, in my hometown. And suddenly everyone knew, that I was gay, that I’d been—” cutting himself off, Kouyou looked down. “People started calling me things. Slut. Fag. _Whore_.”

“Kouyou…”

“Some of those people were my _friends_. I felt like I had nobody left, so I moved. And it’s long ago, and I don’t care about them anymore, but then… it was coming from _you_.” A sigh. “You didn’t know. I shouldn’t have taken it personally.” His smile was weak, but comforting nonetheless. “It’s okay. Your apology is accepted.”

Takanori didn’t know what to say. It _hurt_ to look at Kouyou’s face and see that small, genuine look on his face, like all was well again, as if Takanori wasn’t a fucking monster. As if Takanori hadn’t just told him half the story and passed it off as a complete truth. As if Takanori didn’t know that the _rumour_ Kouyou spoke of was the videos. It couldn’t be anything else. He had seen enough to know.

But it didn’t seem like Kouyou wasn’t lying to him anymore. 

“So,” Takanori tried, hoping to lift the mood. “Who’s to blame for the hickeys?”

Looked like it worked, judging by the amused tone in Kouyou’s voice. “Interested in my love life, Takanori?”

“Just curious, I guess.” He shrugged, figuring there was no real point in asking; Kouyou would probably never answer. “I met Midori again, the other day,” Takanori said, switching the subject. Kouyou’s smile froze at that. “She wanted me to tell you something.”

“Really.”

“She’s leaving Tokyo.”

“Oh.” Kouyou didn’t seem surprised. 

“Did you know?”

“I didn’t, but,” Kouyou stood up, moving to his small kitchen and rummaging through a drawer for something. “Midori had been talking about this school for a long time. I convinced her to apply, but she was always worrying about it, that she wasn’t good enough. If she’s leaving, I guess she got accepted. We don’t talk anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy for her.”

Takanori followed Kouyou, worriedly watching as he filled a pot with water, a couple bags of noodles slung on the counter. One for both of them, he noted. “What kind of school?”

“Architecture. Pretty high end, too.” Kouyou smirked. “She’s an artist too, yeah. I know. Seems I have a type.”

“Sure does. Do you want me to cook that for you, or…?”

“What?” It took Kouyou a second to understand, and when he did, he looked offended. “What, do you think I don’t know how to make instant ramen?” He sniffled indignantly, but he still let Takanori keep watch over his cooking as they waited for the water to heat up. Bubbles were just beginning to appear at the bottom of the pot when Takanori cleared his throat. 

“So, I’ve been thinking.”

“Really?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but the bite in his voice was gone, Kouyou smiling stupidly. “I’ve been thinking, that maybe one of these days I’ll go buy some bleach.”

“Uh huh. That would be useful. You seem to have missed some stains here and there.”

At that he slapped Kouyou’s arm, prompting a chuckle. “And you’re welcome, by the way.” Kouyou was deftly ripping open the bags, dropping the noodles into water that still wasn’t boiling properly. “For my hair. And I was wondering, is that offer to help me out still standing?”

Kouyou looked proud where he stood, tearing a flavor packet. “For you? Always.”


	15. Chapter 15

Takanori was standing in Kouyou’s kitchen, digging through a small bag.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said, pulling out a case that he knew held another pair of shades. “How many sunglasses do you even have?”

“Enough,” Kouyou said from the couch. “There’s another pair in my bedroom.”

“Wonderful.” Takanori took a drag of his cigarette, inspecting the glasses in his hand, noting the brand. “These aren’t even fancy.”

“Well, they’re prescription, not for fashion. I can’t afford to spend all my money on glasses, can I?”

“No, that’s for alcohol. And cigarettes.”

Kouyou chuckled drily, but didn’t comment. “I have… five that are high quality, that I regularly use.”

“So let me get this straight.” Takanori sat down, lining the sunglasses up on the table, cig dangerously placed between his lips as he spoke. “One for when you’re gaming, one for your bedroom, two in your bag for when you’re out. What about the fifth pair?”

“In the bathroom.”

“You need sunglasses in the bathroom?”

“Well, there’s no window in there, so if I have the lights off I can’t see anything.” Takanori made a noise of understanding. “Besides, they’re not all the same. Different glass, some are darker than others. I wear them at different times of day, or depending on where I am.”

“So… if you were to take a walk out on a really sunny summer day, which ones would you bring?” 

Taking the cigarette from Takanori’s mouth, Kouyou placed it between his own lips, pointing to a pair. “Those.” 

Takanori picked the glasses up, sliding them onto his face. The world went several shades darker; dramatically so. And greener. “Huh,” he said, “I can see why.” He took them back off, and the world went back to normal. “Hey, Kouyou, why don’t you get a dimmer?”

“A what?”

“A dimmer, to adjust the lights? That way you could just turn the lights down rather than wearing sunglasses all day and night. Wouldn’t that be more practical?”

Kouyou hummed in thought, finally killing the cigarette in the ashtray. “... it would be, but it’s not my building. I don’t know if I’m allowed to.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Kouyou said, plucking the glasses from Takanori’s hand and putting them on. “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, maybe it’s time we get started. You excited?”

“I guess,” Takanori said as he followed Kouyou into the small bathroom, turning on the lights and taking the towel handed to him, draping it over his shoulders.

“You guess? This is a life-changing experience,” Kouyou scolded. “I was expecting a bit more enthusiasm from you.”

He smirked coyly. “It’s not my first time.”

“Of course. And you’re still sure you want to do it all at once?”

“Yeah,” Takanori said, taking a seat in the chair put out for him, waiting for Kouyou to finish preparing. “I’m sure.”

“Well, if your hair starts falling out, don’t blame me.”

“Don’t play dumb, Kouyou,” Takanori said, chuckling. “You’re not going to let that happen and you know it.”

Behind the dark sunglasses, Kouyou rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “True enough,” he muttered, pulling on the plastic gloves.

It had only been a couple days since they had made up, yet falling back had been easy. Almost too easy, Takanori supposed, after what had happened — what had _almost_ happened — it surprised him how easy it was to pretend like nothing. Kouyou didn’t seem to remember any of it, hadn’t behaved more wary around Takanori since that night; it made it so much easier to return to the flat.

He had missed the place.

After coming home that evening, his father hadn’t berated him as Takanori had expected. He’d glanced at him once, disapproval evident, and then ignored Takanori entirely. It made him nervous, but more than that, it made him angry. It made Takanori want to, now more than ever, lash out, made him want to do something stupid, something rebellious. And so he had gone and purchased the necessary supplies to get his hair done, and brought them to Kouyou’s place.

Honestly, Takanori was surprised with just how ready he was for this, despite the risk. His job, his home, his parents. They wouldn’t approve, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it had before. Takanori knew why. He was sick of being miserable, of being pushed around like he had allowed himself to be ever since moving to Tokyo, and now he’d finally realized it had been too long — a year of rolling over and quietly accepting whatever shit life threw at him. He’d grown tired.

And if Takanori’s father didn’t seem to care anymore, why should he?

Kouyou was placing plastic wrapping around his neck to protect the exposed skin. “You ready?”

Glancing at the bowl of product by the sink, Takanori nodded. Somehow he wasn’t nervous at all. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He ended up with a bright shade of blond in the end. Not the stark bleach blond look like Akira, but a far cry from the golden hue Kouyou had going — instead it settled somewhere in-between. It was… a new look, for sure, but as Takanori studied his newly bleached hair in the mirror of Kouyou’s bathroom, he decided he rather liked it.

He lifted a dead lock of hair, feeling it between his fingers. It was still wet from when Kouyou had rinsed the bleach out in the sink, but the strands were brittle, almost crispy in texture. “Been a while since my hair was this bad.”

“It’ll stay that way for a while,” Kouyou said from behind him. “That’s what happens when you do it all in one go.”

“Clearly,” he muttered. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you.” Kouyou shoved a bottle into his hands. Conditioner. “Put it in, and leave it for a while. It’ll stop your hair from drying out completely.”

Takanori fiddled with the cap for a bit, inspecting the label. “How much do I use? This thing looks pretty expensive…”

“As much as you need. Want me to do it for you?” Kouyou said, smirking. “If that makes you feel better.”

“No, I’ll just do it myself and drain the whole thing.” He handed it back. “Since you’re offering.”

Guiding him back towards the chair, Kouyou popped open the bottle. “Asshole.”

As it turned out, Kouyou was generous with his conditioner, slathering a large amount onto his hands and then rubbing it gently into the entirety of Takanori’s hair. Probably way too much of it, in Takanori’s opinion, but between them Kouyou was the expert, and it wasn’t like he was about to complain. Better safe than sorry.

“There,” Kouyou said once he finished, moving away to wash his hands. “All done.” 

Takanori’s hair was now a soggy, creamy white mess on his head, and it looked terrible. “So I leave this in for how long?”

“The longer the better. That’s why it’s called leave-in conditioner. Because you leave it in.”

“You don’t say,” Takanori huffed. “What do we do while we wait?”

 

For lack of a better option, they went the lazy route and settled for watching a movie, after Takanori declining Kouyou’s offer to play a game together. They were about halfway through when Kouyou’s phone suddenly started to vibrate horrendously where it lay on the table; even Kouyou flinched sharply, and he quickly snagged it, rising from the sofa. “Sorry,” he said, “just a moment.”

Takanori paused the movie, watching Kouyou disappear into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help hearing half the conversation. Not like Kouyou had told him to keep watching, anyway. He found himself wondering who was calling, if it was a friend, if it was _Kai_ — 

Shutting his wandering thoughts up, Takanori felt a sharp regret that he’d gone snooping through Kouyou’s phone. On the other side of the door, Kouyou’s tone was friendly, but not affirmative as he listened to him talk. The conversation wasn’t very long. From what Takanori could tell, someone wanted to know if he was free to hang tomorrow, but Kouyou wasn’t.

Through the door, Kouyou’s voice was muffled, “Bye, Aki.” Then Kouyou hung up and opened the door, meeting Takanori’s curious gaze. “Sorry about that.”

“You going someplace?”

“What, you listening in on my phone calls now?” Kouyou said, dropping back in the seat.

“Sorry, but your voice was kinda hard to ignore.”

“How charming,” he said drily. “Promised some guys downtown to go clubbing with them tomorrow. Haven’t in a while.”

“Yeah? What you gonna do?”

“Nothing special. Socializing, drinking, that kind of thing.”

“Spoken like an alcoholic,” Takanori retorted, unpausing the movie, even as Kouyou nudged his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m not an alcoholic. I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself.”

He refrained from mentioning _that_ night. “Of course.”

When the movie ended, it was getting late. Takanori kept glancing towards the darkening window. He knew he had to go home at some point, but the conditioner was still in his hair, a drying, goopy mess on his now blond head… he wondered what his parents would say when they saw him. Nothing good, Takanori knew. He didn’t want to see them yet, didn’t want to face the inevitable.

“Sun’s setting,” Kouyou said, reaching out to gingerly touch his hair. “You should get this shit out soon.”

“Yeah,” Takanori agreed. He bit his lip; he didn’t want to go home, but at the same time… he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to enter Kouyou’s room again, although he knew he had to. If left to his own devices, he’d probably end up stalling it all night. But then Kouyou stood up, patting his shoulder to get him off the couch. 

“You go shower,” he said, “I’m gonna order us something to eat.”

Couldn’t hurt to try. “Sure you don’t want to wash my hair for me?”

“Again?” Kouyou raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m done being your mom for today. You go borrow some clothes.” He pointed towards the bedroom, grabbed the phone from the table. “You alright with pizza?”

Takanori didn’t answer, merely gave an affirmative hum. Kouyou occupied himself with his phone, probably looking for the number, so he decided to bite the bullet and enter the bedroom. It was the same as he’d left it, a few days ago, just… brighter, as the fading sunlight was allowed in. 

Takanori had hoped that if he pretended like nothing was wrong, he would eventually convince himself… but being back in the bedroom was strange. Averting his eyes from the bed, he had to force his mind to not linger on the memory of Kouyou, drunk out of his mind, pulling him down for a kiss.

Kouyou finding out had the potential to be disastrous, Takanori knew. But he couldn’t continue to be weird about it — or about the prospect of using Kouyou’s shower, for that matter. _It’s only weird if you make it weird_ , he thought, recalling Kouyou’s words from ages ago. _Act like it’s normal and it will be._

… part of him wondered if Kouyou _did_ know. If Kouyou was even better at pretending like nothing than Takanori.

But that was a dangerous thought. It didn’t take long to find clothes — a too-long shirt and pants that were Takanori’s own, brought over one weekend he’d slept over and then forgotten. It was useful now, he supposed, closing the dresser with heaps of clothing in his arms. But as he was leaving the room, Takanori glanced over to the tall wardrobe in the corner. Its doors were ajar.

They had always been locked before. Curious, Takanori paused, putting the clothes on the floor. He glanced out to the living room — Kouyou had gone back to gaming. Cautiously he pulled the doors open, making a face when they creaked; Kouyou didn’t seem to have noticed, volume turned up too loud for him to hear anything else.

Peeking in, Takanori found folded clothing and cardboard boxes shoved into the closet, but he almost lost his breath upon coming face to face with a shiny, blue guitar. It looked well taken care of, but not unused, though it was tucked away and hidden out of sight. Unable to help himself, Takanori ran a hand across its surface; it was just as smooth as it looked, though his fingers came away with a light layer of dust after touching it. Did Kouyou play? He’d never mentioned it. But he did say he didn’t listen to music anymore either, Takanori recalled, spotting the rows of CDs in the bottom of the dresser… a gift-wrapped CD lay on top of them, its packaging torn at the corner. 

Takanori picked it up, recognizing the red cover art of the album immediately. _Lunacy_. Same band as a majority of the CDs, same as the band shirt he kept wearing to bed when he slept over. Same band Kouyou had mentioned loving once, but didn’t listen to anymore. It was their last album, released a couple years back, and one of the few CDs missing from the row. Takanori flipped the small, wrapped case in his hand; he knew he’d seen it before. But where?

Putting everything back, Takanori closed the doors, picking his clothes back up — and it was then he remembered. Midori had given him the CD on Kouyou’s birthday, months ago. And Kouyou had acted like it meant nothing to him, ignoring it the entire evening… he hadn’t even opened it all the way.

Takanori sent Kouyou a wary glance when he passed by. _What are you hiding, Kou?_ he wondered, and as he stepped into the tub to shower, he tried to imagine what had happened. He pictured Kouyou tearing open the present just enough to see what it was, only to shove it into his closet and out of sight along with all the rest of his music and a guitar he didn’t touch.

Something must have happened, Takanori decided as he washed conditioner out of his hair, something to make Kouyou hate music so much. He must have loved it once, enough to collect so many CDs, enough to pick up the guitar. Enough to not throw them away. It had clearly meant a lot to him. _They were my life once._

But not anymore.

He wondered if Kouyou had ever been in a band. Takanori had, before leaving for Tokyo, and he knew that Akira had been in one as well… maybe Takanori should ask more about that.

Touching his wet (but conditioner-free) locks of blond hair, Takanori wondered if maybe he could go back to band life someday. He had the look for it now, at the very least. Sure, his father had thrown out Takanori’s drum set when they moved, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pursue music again. Maybe play a different instrument.

He wondered briefly if he could convince Kouyou to teach him to play the guitar, but the idea was laughable. That would be a lot to ask for. And he wasn’t even supposed to know. _Great job, Takanori, you went snooping again_ , his conscience nagged. He ignored it. Drying himself off, Takanori quickly got dressed, joining Kouyou on the sofa once he was presentable, towel around his neck to protect the borrowed shirt from stray water as he watched Kouyou play in the dark room, sunglasses on his face.

He sat quietly and watched for a bit, Kouyou only pausing the game when the food came — he returned with a pizza box, opened it and left it on the table. “Help yourself,” Kouyou said, and continued to play.

“Of course.”

Kouyou grabbed a slice a few minutes later. The atmosphere felt strangely tight as they ate, Takanori not saying much. His thoughts were elsewhere, away from what Kouyou was saying, away from the stringy, melted cheese he was biting into. His mind was on the music, on the future his father had forced him to abandon. On the uncertain turns his life would likely end up taking after today.

The distraction must have been more obvious than he thought. “Okay, fine,” Kouyou said finally, a slice of pizza dangling from his fingers as he sat up in his seat. “You clearly aren’t listening to me. What’s on your mind?”

Takanori gave himself a few seconds to think, swallowing his food. Grease stuck to his fingertips. “I don’t want to go home,” he said. 

He received an understanding nod. “You can stay here for a bit, if you want.” 

And he wanted to accept, wanted to say yes, because Takanori _did_ want that — he had missed that, sleeping over, sharing a bed, missed the warmth and the safety he had begun to almost take for granted. But…

But he didn’t deserve that anymore, Takanori knew. “I shouldn’t.”

“Nonsense,” Kouyou said. “You don’t want to leave? Sleep here if you want. Bed, sofa, I don’t care,” he insisted, throwing an arm around Takanori’s shoulder. His voice softened slightly when he continued, “If it’s because of last week, no hard feelings. You don’t want to deal with your dad? You don’t have to. Not yet.” He pulled Takanori into something faintly resembling a hug, but just as soon pulled away. “I was the one who bleached your hair, after all. Consider me responsible.”

As awkward as he felt, Takanori couldn’t help a small smile. “But it was my idea.”

“Your dad doesn’t know that. Tell him I tied you to a chair and forced you to dye it. I don’t care,” Kouyou said. His sunglasses were low on his nose, eyes honest in the dim room. “And if it comes to that, I won’t mind if you need someplace to stay for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hair bleaching adventures. 
> 
> again, thanks for kudos and comments. updates will continue to be slow for a while yet, but I will make time for this fic when I can!


	16. Chapter 16

It felt like the pieces of life were starting to fall into place.

That wasn’t truly the case, Takanori knew. In reality, it was the opposite, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling like things were finally becoming _right_. With his freshly dyed hair and heavily decorated ear he certainly looked more like himself than he had in a while. Like before the move, when he still had his wild hair and crazy style to match the rocker persona he had been slowly developing at the time.

Better yet, he had been allowed back into Kouyou’s bed, all without embarrassing himself. When they went to sleep, he stayed on his own side of the bed, and when he woke up he had, thankfully, barely moved, Kouyou was fast asleep beside him, both their dignities were intact, and the sheets still covered the both of them.

Suzuki had even texted him at some point during the night, asking if Takanori was up for a movie night. Though he wasn’t sure why Suzuki was up at two in the morning, Takanori didn’t really care; life was becoming comfortably normal again, in the way it should be. And in all, Takanori felt like he was ready to take on the whole fucking world, even though he knew it wasn’t true.

Kouyou must have been able to see straight through that facade. He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his cup of morning tea in hand, watching as Takanori prepared for work with something akin to concern. Sure, there was Takanori’s father to deal with, but first he had to face the manager. And as much as he loathed to admit it, Takanori already knew how well that would go.

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?”

“Of course,” Takanori replied as he laced up his boots. “Boss might try to fuck me over for breaking our deal, but whatever. If he fires me—” _and he will_ — “maybe that means I’ll finally get to give him a piece of my mind.” When Kouyou failed to look convinced, Takanori gestured to his hair. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to have seconds thoughts about this?”

Kouyou sent him a curt look, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “Never.”

He said it with such conviction, too. 

“Then I’m off,” Takanori said, standing up. “Any last words before I go get torn to shreds?”

“I’ll drink to your loss,” Kouyou said, raising his cup in mock salute, chuckling when Takanori flipped him off. “Try to make it out in one piece.”

 

Despite his new look, the work day started out with relative normalcy, which probably had to do with the fact that Takanori didn’t run into any of his coworkers. He supposed they simply hadn’t recognized him while he made his way to the back, and assumed him to be a customer. That, and he decided to focus his attention in the stockroom after he finished getting ready and putting on his ugly apron. It was a strategic move, on his part. Much as he wanted to get it over with, Takanori did dread the inevitable moment when the manager would call him in. He was always at work on Fridays, a large shadow whose judgmental gaze seemed to follow Takanori wherever he went.

But as lunch hours approached, and some small part of him held out hope that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t happen after all. And if it _did_ , maybe the manager wouldn’t care, like he’d had a sudden change of heart overnight regarding his deep-set opinions regarding _kids these days_ and _goddamn punks_.

Hah. 

Fat chance.

Regardless, Takanori wasn’t entirely sure what he would do after. He was planning on heading to Akira’s place, and maybe he’d stay at Kouyou’s the rest of the weekend… anything to put off going home and face his father. If work went the way he expected that it would, going back home would be hell. And while he couldn’t put it off forever, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

His thoughts came to a halt at the telltale sound of the door to the stockroom being slid open. He held his breath for the few seconds of pause that followed, and sank his shoulders in relief, recognizing the light footsteps.

“What the hell.” Sure enough, it was Fujimoto. “Matsumoto?”

He turned to face her, then, meeting her wide-eyed gaze, but found her looking more angry than surprised. “Hey, Fujimoto.”

“Are you serious right now.”

She was scowling. Takanori awkwardly ran a hand through his hair. “You like it?”

“First Ishida skips out on us, leaving the boss to hire some poor sod and me to show them the ropes—” she crossed her arms, brows furrowed, clearly pissed. “And now you dye your hair? Are you trying to make me miserable?”

“I was actually trying to ruin my own life before getting started on yours.”

“No need, you’ve already done it.” Fujimoto sighed, leaning against a nearby shelf. She looked tired. “Boss is gonna kill you for this, you know.” 

Takanori nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“No point in stalling, then,” she said. “He’s in his office right now.”

“Right.”

He gave her a short bow, and left the stockroom, Fujimoto silently watching as he left. She was right. Takanori had already sealed his fate when he agreed to get his hair done; there was no reason to hope for anything else.

Still, upon entering the manager’s office, a part of Takanori decided that maybe this was all worth it after all. The look of surprise and horror that crossed the man’s face upon seeing him was priceless. 

Takanori’s boss was a large man in his fifties who clung to traditional values and held a deep grudge towards seemingly everything Takanori held dear. Still, the man had agreed to give him a job — so long as Takanori played by his rules. After months of being rejected again and again, with the looming threat of being kicked out should he continue his lack of employment, Takanori had jumped at the chance, even for as caged and depressed it had made him feel. He had reasoned it was still better than being thrown out on his ass in a gigantic, unfamiliar city where he had no one. As good a friend Akira could be on the evenings they spent together, he didn’t know him that well, nor did Akira trust him enough to leave him unsupervised in his cramped apartment. Back then, Takanori had been alone, and he knew it well.

But now, that had changed, and so Takanori held his head high as he approached. The manager scowled from where he sat, eyes trained on Takanori’s bright, dry hair. “We had an arrangement.”

“We did.”

“Then care to explain what _this_ is?” The man gestured towards his head.

“My looks have no impact on my work performance,” Takanori replied, careful to keep his voice even as he spoke. “What I look like — how I dress, wear my hair, my piercings? All of that, it’s none of your business.”

“It is very much my business,” the manager cut in. “You come in here looking like this, you scare customers off—”

“It’s not true,” Takanori said. “That’s not true. They don’t care. Most people are more open-minded nowadays than you think, it’s just your own ignorance speaking.”

The manager did not look impressed, but Takanori’s gaze didn’t waver even once as they stared each other down. They both knew how this would end, Takanori’s will too strong and the boss too old-fashioned and stubborn to allow their agreement being broken.

But he did feel sorry for leaving Fujimoto behind. They had worked together for over a year — when Takanori got the job, she had only been working there for a few weeks. Ishida had been there much longer. 

He didn’t get to stay much longer inside the manager’s office, but made sure to find her again before leaving, ugly apron thrown over his arm as he would no longer need it. Fujimoto was stacking produce when Takanori came by, and she didn’t so much as look at him.

“I’m going,” Takanori said.

She hummed lowly to acknowledge of his presence. “I’m still mad at you, Matsumoto.”

“For leaving you here?”

“No, for making Ishida flee. With him gone, I’m the only one qualified enough to train whoever will replace you,” she said. “It’s a real pain.”

Takanori made a sympathetic noise; after Ishida quit, Fujimoto had been the one assigned to train his replacement, some kid who reminded Takanori too much of himself. Having worked there for so long, Ishida had been the one to teach the two of them how to properly run a store. It was one of the few things he and Fujimoto really had in common, besides working in the hellhole.

“Now I’ll have to do it again with some other tosser…” Fujimoto sighed, only then looking at him. “Hey, why did you tell him off? I know it’s not my business, figured it was just some guy thing, but he’s been gone for long enough. And since you’re pissing off as well, I deserve to know.”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Takanori said after a moment. “It’s pretty awful.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow. “He kill someone?”

“Well, no…”

“Then, what? You two have some sort of girlfriend drama you don’t want me knowing about?”

“Not exactly—”

“Boyfriend drama?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You know what, Fujimoto,” Takanori interrupted, bowing slightly. “It’s been nice working with you. Good luck onwards, and goodbye.”

She shrugged. “Boyfriend drama it is. Sure. See you around, Matsumoto.” She returned his bow, and Takanori left her to work as he went to the backroom to put his apron away and get his things from the locker one final time.

 

“I did it.”

“How’d it go?”

“About as well as I expected it to,” Takanori said, stirring his untouched cup of coffee. “Had a chat with the boss, pissed him off, and now it’s official. I’m fired.”

A short pause from the other end. “How does it feel?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t know. Liberating. I’m free from the shithole and never have to go back, and I got to yell at the boss a bit, so that’s good. I may have slipped a comment about him being a small-minded prick who needs to get his head out of his ass, so that was fun.” Kouyou giggled, and it brought a small smile to his face. “But at the same time… I don’t know.”

“Because of your dad, right?”

“Right, that and no income,” Takanori replied. He pressed a hand to the cup; its heat was comforting. “How come you won’t lunch with me today?”

“Decided to head out early,” Kouyou said. “Remember what I told you before? I meant it; you need me to, I’ll take responsibility.”

“Alright...”

“But at the same time, and this is important, you need to stand up for yourself, Taka. Promise me that.”

Takanori didn’t reply. He was holding the phone unnecessarily tightly; Kouyou was right, but that didn’t mean he was ready just yet. 

Kouyou was silent on the other end of the line. The muffled sound of traffic the only thing Takanori could hear for a while, but when Kouyou spoke again, his voice was softer. “You still there?”

“... I will. And thanks.”

He could imagine Kouyou in that moment; sitting on a train with a phone pressed to his pierced ear, lips gently curved upwards. “Hey, Taka,” Kouyou said. “I’m proud of you.”

Those words filled him with something warm. They settled in Takanori’s mind and stayed there, soothing his worried thoughts somehow, even long after they hung up. 

It was too early to go anywhere, so Takanori stayed there for a while, in Kato’s little coffee shop. He ordered a small piece of cake to celebrate his newfound freedom, and pulled out a sketchpad once he’d eaten it. Slowly he drew his surroundings; brick-lined walls, dark wooden surfaces, Kato brewing coffee behind the counter. The furniture, the few people in the shop, and Kouyou seated on a bar stool, pouring sugar into a tall glass of Irish coffee.


	17. Chapter 17

It was still a bit early when Takanori arrived at the building that housed Akira’s apartment. He had called to warn that he’d be coming over soon, and that Akira didn’t need to worry about going anywhere for their drinking supplies, because Takanori had already gotten them. Finding the door, Takanori gave it a knock, and waited.

And waited.

Leaning against the wall, he stood with arms folded, his mind conjuring up numerous curses to yell at Akira’s face for making him wait so long. By the time the door finally opened, ten minutes had passed since his first knock.

“Fucking finally,” Takanori said, scowling; Akira had been in the shower, as was evident by his dripping wet hair, and the fact that he was wearing nothing but a pair of pants, towel hastily thrown around his bare shoulders. At least he had the decency to sound slightly out of breath, clearly having rushed to the door.

“Shit, sorry,” Akira said, “Thought I had time to take a shower, didn’t know you were coming already—” Cutting himself off, he did a double take. “You dyed your hair?”

“Damn slow on the uptake too,” Takanori grumbled, picking his bags from the floor and shoving Akira aside. Entering the apartment, he moved to the fridge to deposit the beer. “I did tell you I was coming.”

“Thought you were further away when you called me. What did you get?”

“I was shopping nearby.” He tossed the movie in Akira’s direction, who caught it easily. “You gonna get dressed?”

“Yeah,” Akira said. He took a second to look over the cover, smiling sheepishly. “Give me a minute.”

The movie was one Takanori had already seen — he had watched it with Kouyou one particularly lazy evening but hardly paid it attention at the time. Still, he could only recall good things from it, so upon spotting the movie Takanori decided to give it another shot. Akira seemed to like it, too; he remained mostly quiet, sipping his light beer with his eyes glued to the screen, for once not getting distracted. Takanori had to congratulate himself on his good choice. 

Unsurprisingly, it was only after the movie was over and Takanori was opening a new bottle of beer for them that Akira brought up the inevitable topic. He had kept glancing towards Takanori’s head every now and then. It must have been odd; he had never seen Takanori with anything other than black hair until now, after all. 

“Be out with it.”

“Looks nice on you,” Akira said, reaching out to touch the stiff strands. Takanori slapped his hand away. “Guess you didn’t need my help after all, huh?”

“It’s for the better,” Takanori said. “You would probably end up dying it pink.”

“What, you don’t have faith in my abilities?”

“Considering that your hair’s practically white, I wouldn’t be surprised if bleach has soaked your brain by this point.”

“Hey!”

“Nah, got a friend to help me out,” he grinned. “It’s more a trust issue. You did say you wanted to turn me into a rainbow.”

“Yeah, as a joke,” Akira said and rolled his eyes. “I’m fucking _amazing_ at bleaching hair, I’ll have you know. Could have been a hairdresser had I been gay.”

“That’s so straight of you.”

Akira just laughed. “So what made you do it?” 

“Decided enough was enough.”

Grunting in reply, Akira fell silent for a bit, taking a sip of his beer. Takanori knew what he was thinking — Akira did know about the prissy boss, the deal — but he wouldn’t ask. It wasn’t his place. 

“You should’ve seen me a couple years ago,” Akira said instead, shifting the subject. “I stopped bleaching my hair and just had it black for a while.”

“Fascinating. What made you bleach it again?”

“A friend told me that apparently, black hair makes me look like a twat.”

Takanori almost spat his beer out. “Man,” he laughed, “I would pay to see that. Please tell me you have pictures.”

“Of course I do,” Akira grinned, “But there is no way in hell you’re seeing them.”

“Here I spend my hard-earned cash to make sure you have a nice evening, and you won’t even show me some measly pictures? You’re terrible.” Akira didn’t answer, slinging his arm behind him on the sofa, looking amused. “So that’s after you quit music, right?”

“What? Oh.” Akira nodded. “Quit music, stopped bleaching my hair, looked like a regular kid for a few years. I was pretty boring. Why you asking?”

“Just thinking, since we both have the look for it now…”

“You want to… what?” It took Akira a moment. “Be in a band? Oh. _Oh._ ”

“... well, that’s not what I meant but sure, why not?” The idea, at least, was appealing. There was a smirk on Takanori’s face as he went on. “We’ve both done it before, we both have experience. Could be great.”

Akira paused. “No,” he said. “Look, about being a musician and all that… if you’d asked me five years ago if we could play together there’s no way I would have turned you down. I really wanted to be a rock star back then. You did too, right? But I don’t have the time for that kind of thing anymore,” Akira explained, looking away. “It was just a dream we had in high school.”

“Eh, it was a long shot.” Takanori shrugged.

“We weren’t that good anyway,” Akira said after a little while. “My group, I mean. Not you and me. High school band and all. Just a bunch of kids trying to figure out how to make music without really knowing what we were doing.”

“Yeah?” Interest piqued, Takanori pressed on. “You never really told me about it.”

“Not much to tell. We formed a band. We… weren’t very good. Some of us had more skill than others.” He chuckled to himself. “I wasn’t exactly great.”

“Really. What’d you play?”

“Guitar for a while, switched to bass, figured it’d be easier.”

“Because there’s fewer strings?”

“Yeah, and if I messed up, people wouldn’t notice!” He grinned. “Actually I was shit — at least in the beginning. It was my best friend who convinced me to join. Shima was— he was much better than me… a guitarist, too. He’d been in another band before. He was definitely the best one in our group.”

“Uh huh.”

Akira took a sip of the beer. “Pretty sure it was more his dream than mine, but you know… he gave me the idea that it was what I wanted with my life. Being a rock star, making a living playing music with my best friend. Pretty awesome, right? So I followed, until the band broke up. Didn’t take long. We were just stupid kids with little to no talent, for the most part.” 

He went silent for a bit, then, taking another swig of watered down liquid courage before continuing. “But Shima was really insistent on making it. I knew that he could, too. He found another band soon enough, convinced me to join.” Akira leaned back, turning the bottle in his hands. “And then… I don’t know, he left.”

Takanori raised a brow in surprise. “Just out of nowhere?”

“Yeah. I didn’t see the point in being in a band without him. So I left, dyed my hair black and started taking school seriously. You know the rest.”

“I’m almost disappointed.”

“Sorry that the musical career of Suzuki Akira wasn’t as exciting as you thought,” Akira said jokingly. “What about you? Planning on getting back into the scene?”

Running a hand through his bleached hair, Takanori considered the question — he had been wondering himself. “Probably not,” he decided. “I mean, I gotta find something to do with my life, and I don’t know what it’s gonna be yet. But right now… that dream has probably passed.”

Akira grunted. “Hm.”

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Takanori said. “I’ll probably still want to do something creative. Become a famous artist. Or a designer. Something like that.” He pulled his legs up, curling up on the sofa, leaning against Akira. “Or maybe I’ll just spend the rest of my life as a freeloader, watching movies with you every week.”

Unsurprisingly, Akira pushed him away. “Keep talking like that, it’s gonna be once a year.”

“Fucker.”

 

Akira had already gotten up; Takanori had yet to get out of bed, but he was awake, watching his friend moving about in the small flat. The thin curtains did little to keep the room dark.

Truth to be told he was anxious. Akira was getting ready for work, so Takanori would need to leave. But where would he go? There was no way he dared to go home, and Takanori doubted Kouyou would appreciate his company this early, especially considering he’d gone out the night before. Knowing him, he’d probably gone drinking, and would probably not get out of bed until noon, at the very least.

That left Takanori with few options. 

“You getting up anytime soon?” Akira was putting his belt on, threading it through the loops. “I gotta go in a bit.”

At least they had stayed up for longer than usual, their discussions ranging everything from stupid bullshit to philosophy until Akira finally decided that sleep was necessary. Maybe he had allowed Akira to touch his hair, even receiving a few compliments on how good of a job he’d gotten on it despite how dry the strands were. But to Takanori, it was all just stalling, distracting himself from the fact that sooner or later he would have to go home.

Maybe he could stall a little longer. 

“No,” Takanori murmured, sleepiness still heavy in his voice. 

“Don’t make me drag you out of bed.”

Slowly Takanori sat up, letting his feet hit the shoddy carpet. Akira looked ready to go, rummaging through his kitchen cabinets for a quick breakfast, accustomed to Takanori’s slow mornings. 

“Shit, I’m out of food,” he grumbled as he gazed wistfully into an empty drawer. “Looks like you’ll need to get something yourself.”

Takanori picked a speck of imaginary dust from his borrowed pants. “Hey, ‘kira?” he said, and Akira paused. “You wouldn’t mind if I stayed here, right?”

Akira looked at him, mouth tight, but Takanori didn’t miss the way he glanced up at his hair. Akira’s mind was working — he wanted to protest, not comfortable with the idea of Takanori staying in his empty apartment for hours, but he knew that Takanori needed some support. And Akira was too good a guy to not help.

“Sure, man,” he said after a little while. “Don’t… break anything.”

And then he was gone. What the fuck was Takanori to do with himself for several hours? Sleeping was the most obvious solution, but he wasn’t tired anymore. Hell, he was too worried to sleep.

Getting off the bed, Takanori found his phone, unsurprised to see nobody had tried to contact him. Kouyou was probably sleeping still and his parents were used to Takanori being away during the weekends. And as they didn’t know yet, they had no reason to be angry.

Discarding the thought, Takanori flopped down on Akira’s sofa; he refused to think about it, at least for now. Reaching for the remote, he turned the TV on. Unlike Kouyou, Akira actually watched TV on a regular basis and had at least semi-decent channels to pick from. Kouyou. Where was he? Had he gone back home after his night out, or maybe he went home with someone else? 

Ignoring the bitter taste that thought left in his mouth, Takanori pulled out his phone again, sending a text wishing Kouyou good morning. It was quite likely he’d need someplace to stay later, and he wouldn’t mind going back to Kouyou’s place. When a while passed and he didn’t get a reply, Takanori decided himself correct in his assumptions that his friend likely was not awake yet.

The TV droned on; his stomach complained. “Fine,” Takanori grumbled, pushing himself up and going to Akira’s small kitchen. A thorough search found that Akira had mostly been telling the truth about the lack of food — there was about half a bag of rice, a couple eggs, some vegetables that looked like they had been sitting in the fridge for too long. 

Fucking hell. Seemed Akira was almost as bad at taking care of himself as Kouyou was. Food was food, however, and he could live on rice for a day no problem. Takanori didn’t trust the vegetables, but at least the eggs could make things more interesting. If only Akira had some sort of spices in his kitchen. What kind of man didn’t have pepper? Honestly.

As he ate his plain meal by the TV, he found his mind wandering again. Last night had been good. Akira agreed that the blond look suited him leagues better than his natural, boring black ever had. And didn’t Akira mention something, that he’d looked terrible with black hair himself? No, not terrible; the word he’d used was a _twat_. And there had been _pictures_. Grinning, Takanori put his bowl down. Knowing Akira, there was a good chance that those pictures were somewhere in his apartment. Takanori sincerely hoped so, because he needed to see that.

Sure, maybe Takanori had a problem when it came to respecting other people’s privacy, but damn it, he was already bored and had time to kill — six hours, according to his phone. Akira knew his shameless, curious nature, knew the risks in letting him stay, and Takanori had already seen most of Akira’s stuff. But if there were any secrets hidden out of sight and away from prying eyes, he would love to find them.

Slowly he began ransacking the apartment. He skimmed Akira’s school books, quickly looking through what he was already familiar with. The tiny bookcase held a few movies and CDs, a large amount of misplaced lighters, and a ridiculous amount of mystery novels. How Akira had time to read all of them was beyond him. No photo albums, though. Disappointing. 

Crouching on the floor, Takanori peeked underneath the bed — sure enough, Akira had no creativity in regards to hiding places. A few cardboard boxes were sitting there. Takanori had a pretty good idea what he was in for, pulling out the largest box. 

Ew. Sure enough, porn mags. He _really_ didn’t feel the need to comb through Akira’s pornography in search for embarrassing photos. He doubted Akira would go that far just to hide pictures anyway, so Takanori pushed the box back and grabbed for the other one, grimacing when his hands came in contact with some sizeable dust bunnies on their way there.

But it was worth it, upon opening the cardboard box. Looked like this was where Akira dumped what he kept out of their sentimental value. There was a small plastic bag containing guitar picks, an impressive amount of lighters of various design, cheap-looking jewelry, football trophies and medals — and a black wooden box. Picking it up, Takanori opened it. He was faced with a blank scrap of paper, but there was clearly something beneath; jackpot.

He couldn’t help his excited grin, seeing the pictures, and Takanori lifted them out, feeling their glossy surfaces. He skimmed through the uninteresting ones, past people he didn’t recognize, random stores and food, stopping at familiar faces. Teenaged Akira slung in a chair with a flimsy guitar in his lap, his hair nearly bleached white. 

And sure enough, a picture of Akira sitting in an arcade, surprisingly decently dressed, his hair black. Takanori was a little amazed. He had only ever seen Akira blond, but in the photo he hadn’t even styled his hair. That friend of his had been right; he really did look like a twat.

Digging further, Takanori failed to find more pictures from that phase of Akira’s life — there was a photo of him as a little kid, though, with his mother. Cute, Takanori thought, and put it away with the rest he’d looked through. There was a polaroid from Akira’s band days; a bunch of young guys scattered around a small room, each with their hair dyed or bleached, each with their respective instruments. It gave him a chuckle; they all looked so bright and hopeful, so ready to take on the world even though they were, as Akira had put it, just a bunch of kids who didn’t know what they were doing…

Except for one. Akira’s best friend, what had he called him again? Shima? It was probably the one standing closest to him, the guy who held a blue guitar in his lap where he sat between Akira and an amplifier, and Takanori’s bemused smile froze. 

What the _fuck_. His hair was blue and in his face, but Takanori could recognize that grin anywhere. That was… it was Kouyou. There was no mistaking it. Or was there? He looked harder, just in case his eyes were fooling him. Nope, still the same face. Maybe it was just the angle? 

Takanori quickly went through more of the pictures, quickly finding another shot of the guy; sure enough, same face. He was younger and softer-looking, and his hair was blue, but it was… definitely him. A blue guitar, same as the one he’d found in Kouyou’s closet. Shima. _Takashima_. Fuck. He vaguely remembered finding a contact listed as Aki on Kouyou’s phone. _You stupid idiot_ , Takanori cursed, still staring, at Kouyou’s young face, his open eyes. It was a polaroid, colours washed out with the bright flash that came along with taking it. 

Truth to be told, he’d grown so used to thinking of Kouyou simply as _Kouyou_ that he’d nearly forgotten about his family name entirely...

Frowning, Takanori put it down. He hesitated, staring at the other pictures; snooping through Akira’s stuff was supposed to be dumb fun to kill time, it shouldn’t lead to earth-shattering discoveries. His only friends knew each other. They had known each other for a really long time, it would seem… best friends. Maybe Akira knew what had lead Kouyou to turn out the way he had… but it wasn’t likely he’d ever tell. Maybe he would just yell at Takanori for going through his things without permission.

There weren’t many photos left. A few poor scenery shots, more random people. A grinning, teenaged Kouyou, crouched next to pet a large brown dog. Keisuke, Takanori remembered. 

Another scrap of blank paper, and he reached the last picture… it had a worn and weathered look to it, like it had been folded, crumpled up, before being straightened out again. There was Akira, his blond hair as brittle as Takanori’s own, sitting on a sofa in a pale room next to a Kouyou that was nearly unrecognizable — his hair was black, skin pallid, and what was visible of his frame was skinnier than Takanori had ever seen it, an oversized shirt hanging unflatteringly on his body. And then there were the sunglasses. Large, dark lenses sheltering his eyes from the brightness of the room.

Takanori almost felt sick. He looked like a stranger, so _small_ , so sick, fragile and unfamiliar… but it was, without a doubt, Kouyou. It was blind boy.

Fuck, he wanted to hit something.

Nobody would tell him because nobody thought he needed to know. It wasn’t like Takanori could just ask — his temporary break with Kouyou had lead Takanori to realize that Kouyou could never find out. He valued their friendship too much to risk it. He didn’t dare to imagine what Kouyou would say, if Takanori were to tell him… Ishida’s initial obsession, the one that had infected Takanori and grown into… whatever it was Takanori was feeling now. The fact that they would never have met, never become friends if not for the fact that Takanori had watched the videos of blind boy. 

He already knew that Kouyou would likely never forgive him.


	18. Chapter 18

Guilt was an ugly thing, Takanori had come to understand. So was shame; he was familiar enough with both to know that. He was also excellent at acting like nothing, like he didn’t know of Kouyou’s deepest, darkest secrets. Like he didn’t snoop through Akira’s things. Like he didn’t know they were friends, that they shared the same history.

So Takanori feigned obliviousness, and tried to swallow the insistent confusion that was slowly devouring him whole.

He’d put everything back into place as he found it. Akira came home several hours later than expected to find the apartment mostly as he’d left it, and Takanori sleeping on the couch, having at some point dozed off. Waiting up was boring, after all.

In the end Takanori stayed at Akira’s place the entire weekend. Even with the newfound information, he was still too anxious about going home, knowing what would await him there. Besides, Kouyou had continued to refrain from answering Takanori, meaning he was probably either busy or not at home, so his place was not an option. 

Without questioning it, Akira let him stay. But the weekend had to end sometime, and it was early still when Takanori made his way back home from Akira’s place. Akira, after all, had a busy schedule, full of too-early schooldays and work that had to be done. Takanori envied him a little; all he needed to do was go back and wait for hell to break loose. 

Stepping into his parents' apartment, he took a deep breath. They were both at work by this hour, so he fortunately had some time for himself. 

Entering his room, Takanori’s gaze immediately landing on his laptop. Usually he would take most opportunities to search the internet for things to entertain himself with, anything that could capture his attention for a few hours, be it TV shows, interesting art, or blind boy’s videos… but coming back, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to watch them again. It would be wrong, and he knew — had known all along, of course — but if he were to be found out… it wasn’t just his friendship with Kouyou that was at stake anymore; it was Akira’s as well. The thought of being truly alone did not sit well with him. 

That didn’t mean he would not miss it, Takanori thought, blind boy’s masked face staring back at him from his sketchbook. He put it away. Opened his laptop, found the folder and opened a video. Kouyou’s angry eyes looked up at him through blue hair, the man’s laughter resounding from the speakers, _“I fuckin’ made it.”_

Sighing, Takanori closed it again, and put his head in his hands. He just wanted to _understand._

But he couldn’t. 

 

 _Sorry about ignoring you all weekend_ , Kouyou’s text read, having at some point finally woken up from his dormant state. It pulled Takanori away from the show he had only partially been paying attention to. Putting his paintbrush down, Takanori stared at the text for a bit, about to answer, but a second message came in before he got the chance to send it. _Was busy. Did you go home? You okay?_

 _Stayed at a friend’s_ , Takanori replied, considering whether to ask Kouyou about Akira, but decided quickly against it. _Dad’s not seen yet. He’ll be home soon._

Another text. _Remember what I told you._

Right. Stand up for yourself. Takanori bit his lip, ran a hand through his hair. There was no way he could really plan the confrontation he knew was to come, but Kouyou’s point was clear; _defend yourself, don’t back down, don’t let him control you._ All Takanori could really do was ready himself for his father’s anger, the disapproval, the yelling he knew was to come. But looking down onto his unfinished painting, all he could feel was a creeping sadness.

Even now, Takanori didn’t understand what his father had against him. The man seemed to hate every decision Takanori had made in life, seemed to despise everything about him — his passion for music, for fashion and art. He thought Takanori would waste away, should he pursue his own interests, no matter how talented or ambitious he might be, rather than prioritize studying, getting a conventional job… work your way up the ladder, get your own place, a wife, a couple kids. Be a normal, productive member of society. Raise no questions and do nothing with your creativity, with your life. 

Just become another bland, lifeless adult.

It hurt. Takanori wanted to be himself, yes, but he also wanted his family to care for him… how could he not? But they shunned him for what he was. He had only been tolerated so far because he stayed out of their way, because he complied and didn’t bother them, but otherwise he was largely ignored. Despised just for existing.

And now he could make out the sound of the front door slamming shut, signalizing the inevitable arrival. Closing the laptop, Takanori curled up in his chair, dead silent; there was a moment of quiet as the storm gathered. Then heavy footsteps resounded down the hallway, coming closer, stopping just outside his room. Takanori wanted to hold his breath, avert his eyes and bow his head as his father yanked the door open, but Kouyou’s words echoed in his mind. _Stand up for yourself. Keep your head up and be proud of who you are._

Nonetheless, he tensed his jaw seeing his father’s resentful expression from where the man stood in the doorway. His eyes took in Takanori, from his bleached hair to the large earrings, and just like that he _knew_ , just as Takanori had predicted he would. 

“Takanori,” his father said, slowly stepping inside his room. “Mind telling me why you are not at work right now?”

Takanori pushed himself away from his desk, chair creaking loudly against the floorboards. He tried to keep himself from wavering as he came face to face with his father.

 

“I’m sorry about this,” Kouyou said, handing Takanori a bag of ice. Takanori didn’t look up, mumbling a word of thanks as he took the towel-wrapped bag, pressing it against his bruising cheek, hissing in pain when the cold came in contact with his swelling skin. “I think I underestimated how much of an asshole your dad is.”

“Most people do,” Takanori muttered, finally meeting Kouyou’s gaze.

Kouyou sighed, sitting down next to Takanori on the sofa. He looked guilty. “How bad was it?”

Chuckling humorlessly, Takanori pulled the ice from his face; it still burned hot with pain where he’d been hit. “Could have been worse,” he said. 

But to tell the truth, it had been hell. His father circling him like a predator, the way he had been chewed out, hardly given the chance to defend himself, harshly shot down when he tried — and his father had kept him there, cornered, because the worst was yet to come. When Takanori’s mother came home shortly after, he had been dragged into the living room.

That’s when it really had started.

He was sat by the table as his mother stood there, silent and staring with disappointment in her eyes, his father listing everything Takanori had done wrong in his life… and then… 

He remembered his father’s words. How could he not? They had been yelled to his face not even hours ago, after all. Ungrateful. Useless. _You lie to us, steal from us, and now this_ — and then his father had thrown it onto the table; Takanori’s sketchpad. Its pages open in front of him, in front of all three of them. Takanori couldn’t forget the way his blood had run cold, the terror he had felt.

But the thing Takanori had not expected was his mother’s reaction. Why did she hit him? Why did she tell him to leave and not come back? It made it all the worse somehow, not knowing. And he had failed. Failed to stand up for himself, failed Kouyou.

“Hey, Taka,” Kouyou said softly, and Takanori hated himself for the way he couldn’t control his choked sobs, the tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m really sorry this happened.” 

But the warm hand on his shoulder was comforting, and he let himself be pressed against Kouyou’s thin chest, allowed himself to bury his face in his friend’s neck, the bag of ice sliding out of his hand and landing between them. He stayed there, weeping silently against Kouyou’s skin, staring with blurred vision at the hickey that was beginning to match his own darkening cheek while Kouyou wordlessly consoled him. Neither of them said anything for the longest time; Takanori because he knew that if he did, his voice would come out broken with crying, Kouyou because there was nothing to say.

He felt so weak, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, in that moment. Not the fact that their entire relationship was built on a lie, that he was a monster; it did not matter that he was allowing himself to be held by someone he had nearly taken advantage of.

After a while, Kouyou pulled away, and Takanori stared emptily into the dim room, pressing the bag back against the bruise. Beside him, Kouyou pulled his knees to his chest. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know,” Takanori replied. Sure enough, strangled voice. He cleared his throat. “I have money, but… not enough to afford a place to live. Besides, most of it’s at home— at my parents'.” Cringing, he corrected himself. “So is all my stuff.”

Kouyou looked hesitant, but stopped chewing on the inside of his mouth. “You can stay here.”

The bag of ice had begun to warm up. Takanori pulled it away, feeling how its corners slowly melted between his fingers. “For how long?”

“Long enough to get you back on your feet, at least. Or as long as you want to. I don’t mind having you around, Taka. Could be for a day, could be a couple months, I don’t know.” He wrapped an arm around Takanori’s shoulder. “That’s up to you. I said I would take responsibility, didn’t I?”

“Are you sure?” It was a nice suggestion, but Takanori was uncertain. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Kouyou scolded, and Takanori was glad to hear that tone back in his friend’s voice. “In all the times you’ve been over, did I ever give you the impression that you annoy me? More than usual, I mean.” He laughed a little at his own joke, but Takanori failed to see the humor. “I’m proud of you, but this is still pretty much my fault. Besides, you need someplace to stay, and I want to help you, Taka.” He smiled. “Just let me do something for you for once.”

“When have I ever done anything for you?”

“Been my friend, for one.” Kouyou chuckled, tilting his head to the side. “Notice anything new about the flat?” Uncertain, Takanori slowly looked around. He couldn’t see anything new, and Kouyou shook his head, amused at his obvious confusion. “The lights.”

Then it clicked. Now that he mentioned it, the lights in the apartment were notably less bright than they used to be, and Kouyou’s face was bare… usually he would have been wearing his sunglasses by now, as he had a visitor and the sun had long since set. “You got a dimmer?”

He was rewarded with a broad grin. “Two, actually. Got some… professional help setting it up over the weekend and everything. So now I don’t need to wear the sunglasses inside anymore.” Kouyou paused, glancing toward his TV. “Well, except for when I’m gaming. My eyes would die without them. And there’s not one in the bedroom, because there’s no point.”

Despite the situation, Takanori couldn’t help the way the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. Damn Kouyou and his infectious cheeriness. “Did you get permission from the landlord?”

“Eh, he never comes around anyway.” Kouyou shrugged. “Besides, I have a medical condition. I did get them installed properly, there was no damage done... it should be fine, right?”

“It amazes me how you get away with things so easily.”

“That’s not true,” he protested. “I don’t always.”

“Well, considering you keep doing stuff like there are no consequences… and then nothing happens, no matter what you did.” Kouyou rolled his eyes, so Takanori challenged, “No? Mention one time you did something stupid and had to pay the price yourself.”

When the only answer he got was Kouyou lowering his eyes in thought, Takanori chuckled. 

“That’s what I thought.”

“Jerk.” Kouyou huffed, frowning. “Don’t make me regret letting you stay, I can still kick you out, you know.”

“But I thought you said you were going to be _responsible_ ,” Takanori teased, gesturing to his face. “I did take a blow for this, you know.” Kouyou nodded, glancing at the growing bruise, but he was chewing on his lip again, guilt resurfacing. “But it’s alright,” Takanori was quick to say. “I guess it’s better this way.” Sighing, he leaned back in his seat. “Rather get punched and thrown out once than let my parents control how I live my life…”

“It will get better,” Kouyou said softly. “Trust me. Just give it time.” 

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the cushions. All Takanori could feel was the blood pulsing in his bruised cheek, and for all that he was hurting, Kouyou’s warmth by his side was comforting. “I hope you’re right.”

They sat like that for a long time. When they eventually did go to bed, it was with silence. The night had a sense of finality to it, at least for Takanori. He didn’t have a home anymore. His parents had by all rights disowned him. If it was permanent or not, Takanori wasn’t sure. They knew about his sketches — how much more they knew he wasn’t sure of, but he was glad that his laptop at the very least was password protected. They couldn’t access the videos, couldn’t find what it really was he had filled that book with.

Running a hand gently over his bruised cheek, Takanori found himself once again wondering what it was that had caused his mother to lash out the way she did. She had taken the book into her hands, despite Takanori’s protests, gone through it with an expression that grew grimmer and grimmer with each page, and looked at him like he was a monster. 

She was stronger than she looked. 

Takanori had halfway expected a punch from his father, but never from her. And it was a potent punch, too, hard enough to leave a lasting bruise, hard enough to still hurt hours later. But she had never been anything but gentle with him. Hell, that went for both of his parents. Takanori had never faced anything more than harsh words and cold shoulders before, he’d never experienced physical discipline, abuse, anything of the sort…

And yet, he was hit over this. She had barely even said a word, nothing to explain why she was so horrified.

But it didn’t matter, Takanori supposed. They had thrown him out and told him not to return. It didn’t seem like they wanted anything to do with him ever again.

Turning over in bed, he sighed and pulled the covers up higher. He may have lost everything, but least he had Kouyou… 

Yet he felt so alone.

“Hey Kou,” he tried. “You asleep yet?”

His voice was so loud in the room. He could hardly see, but he could make out the shape of Kouyou raising his head from the pillow to look at him in the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

Takanori fiddled with his hands beneath the blanket. “Nothing, I just…” he sighed. “Would you mind if I came closer?”

Silence. “Not at all,” Kouyou said quietly, and Takanori closed his eyes in relief, glad he hadn’t been turned down. After all the blows he had taken throughout the day, he felt a childish need for contact.  
As dumb as it would usually make him feel, right now Takanori didn’t care. He craved comfort, and Kouyou seemed willing to provide it, so he inched closer until they were nearly touching.

He stopped there, unsure if he would be allowed more. He waited until Kouyou’s breath evened out, until it became deep and slow, and ran his hands through Kouyou’s hair, letting smooth strands glide against his fingertips.

“You can hold me, if you like.”

The words took him by surprise, so quiet that Takanori hardly caught them at first, but he wasn’t about to question the offer. Pulling himself as close as he could, he nestled into Kouyou’s back. He wrapped his arms around his waist, buried his bruised face in the soft hair. Kouyou shivered slightly, but said nothing.

As he lay there, Kouyou in his arms, he had to bite back tears. His world was falling apart... but maybe that meant he could collect the shattered pieces, build himself up again. In a better way than before, using his own two hands… he could make himself the way he wanted to be.

So he pressed his lips against Kouyou, against his hair, the back of his ear, his shoulder, against that spot on his neck he knew held a small bruise, not noticing the way Kouyou flinched just slightly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

There was no response.


	19. Chapter 19

Kouyou, as it turned out, did not regularly eat breakfast. Partially because his kitchen barely had any food in it, partially because he didn’t want to deal with delivery people so soon after getting out of bed. That was his explanation when he found Takanori ransacking the cupboards, looking for something edible aside from packets of instant noodles.

It didn’t come as a surprise. In their many weekends together, they had rarely ever had breakfast, and if they did, it would usually be leftovers, either takeaway from the previous day or the rare occasion when Kouyou’s mother had been visiting, forcing Takanori to keep his distance for a few days but return to find Kouyou’s fridge full of homemade meals and his apartment sparkling clean. 

Still, Takanori had hoped that maybe Kouyou would get around to doing some actual grocery shopping for once, rather than just living on takeout all the time… especially now that he was staying there. 

At the very least, the cup of tea Kouyou handed him did postpone hunger for a bit.

Come noon, they were huddled on the small sofa, still in sleepwear. Kouyou was playing something, sunglasses on as per usual while Takanori sipped tea slowly as he watched with mild interest. If there was one thing he could appreciate, it was the clothes he had forgotten at Kouyou’s place after past sleepovers. It gave him some options when it came to getting dressed, at least, even if the clothes were wrinkled. Takanori was not going to afford going shopping for a while, if at all; he was out of a job. Kouyou didn’t pay his own rent, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would let Takanori live there completely for free.

“Want me to order something?”

“Huh?” 

“You look like you’re hungry,” Kouyou said matter-of-factly, eyes still glued to the game he was playing. “We have no food, so I could order you something to eat.”

“That’d be—”

Takanori was meaning to accept the offer, but the sudden eruption of music made him cut himself off, digging after the source of the sound. Kouyou paused his game, watching carefully as Takanori pulled his phone from his pocket.

Takanori wasn’t sure if it was a small glimmer of hope or heavy dread he felt, seeing the caller ID. 

“It’s my dad.” 

He saw the surprised look on Kouyou’s face, the one that mirrored his own, and despite knowing better he answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear. 

“ _Takanori._ ”

There was a severe note in his father’s voice; Takanori grimaced. “Yeah?”

“ _Do you have anywhere to stay right now?_ ”

He hesitated, glancing over at Kouyou who was no doubt listening closely. “Yeah.”

“ _Good,_ ” Takanori’s father said. “ _The key’s in the mailbox. You need to come collect what you want to keep._ ”

Takanori kept silent, but he couldn’t help the stab of hurt that coursed through him at the words.

“ _It needs to be done today, before we get home. Can I trust you to do this?_ ”

“... sure.”

“ _Good._ ” He fell quiet for a bit, as though there was something he needed to say, but couldn’t bring himself to. A short sigh, and then; “ _Don’t keep the key._ ”

It nearly hurt, hearing the resounding beep alerting him that the call had been disconnected. “Looks like I’ll need to go out today after all,” Takanori said after a moment, his hold on the phone firm. “Gotta get my stuff. And bring them here, I guess. Would that bother you?”

“Of course not,” Kouyou answered. “Want me to go with you?”

That, at least, was a comfort.

 

Takanori still remembered all the curious looks he had gotten when he first made his way to Kouyou’s place. Fortunately, he didn’t need to say anything; Kouyou understood. He pulled Takanori into the bathroom and proceeded to do his best to cover up the damage with makeup that Takanori hadn’t even known he owned, hidden away in a drawer beneath the sink. The carefully applied concealer made his bruise difficult to notice, for which Takanori was grateful; no way he was going to be in public looking like an assault victim. 

Not again.

And so they left, briefly stopping at a small café as Takanori was still starving, before getting on the train. Kouyou stayed quiet on the short ride, staring out the window at the scenery passing by. Takanori was silent, too, his eyes drifting from the buildings outside, to Kouyou, to the floor. 

His father had been true to his word when they finally arrived; fishing the key out of the mailbox, Takanori unlocked the door and they stepped inside. He didn’t bother to take his shoes off. 

Kouyou looked around in appreciation. “It’s a nice place.”

“Hm.” Takanori grunted, pulling the door to his room open and gesturing for Kouyou to enter. “Here we are,” he said. “This is… used to be my room.”

It was pretty much as he’d left it, Takanori noted in relief. He had been fairly sure his father would’ve ransacked it for more evidence, but looked like he had been wrong. Everything was still in place — the open crate of art supplies on the floor, his unfinished painting on the desk, the shut laptop. The drawers were all closed, as were the doors of his cabinet — pulling them open, he peered inside, finding nothing to be missing. Apparently his parents had left his stuff alone.

“Are we going to get started?”

“Huh?” He looked up to find Kouyou staring at the painting on the desk. “Yeah, in a bit. Just need to figure out what I want to take first…” Takanori trailed off, eyes fixed on something on his pillow. Right in the middle of his bed laid the sketchpad. A glance back to Kouyou found him staring at the posters on the walls — making sure his back was turned, Takanori picked the book up, quickly looking through it too see if it was still whole. The paper was scuffled in places from the rough handling it had received.

Frowning, Takanori closed the book. He had thought they would throw it away, burn it maybe, considering the damning proof it seemed to contain. But no, instead they left it right there, on his bed, where they knew he would find it. Or at least his father did. Takanori wasn’t sure if his mother knew he was even there.

“Got anything we can use?”

Quickly he slid the book under his pillow. “What?”

“I didn’t bring anything, so is there anything around to carry stuff in? Like, boxes, or maybe a bag?”

“There is that one,” Takanori said, pointing to the crate on the floor. “I was thinking of bringing it.”

Turning away from the poster-lined wall, Kouyou approached the open cardboard box, peeking inside. “And you want me to carry it for you, I’m sure.”

He grinned despite himself. “Since you’re offering.”

Finding a duffel bag in his parents' closets, Takanori got to work stuffing it with as much clothing as he could possibly fit. Whatever his parents were intending to do with his stuff once he was gone, Takanori did not know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either. Worst case scenario, it would be thrown out, so he made sure to shove as much as he could into the bag. Less worse scenario, it would be donated to charity and end up with someone who could actually appreciate his carefully selected outfits. 

Of course, the preferable outcome was that all of Takanori’s stuff remained in his possession. Granted, the clothes took up the most space and he didn’t actually have a lot that was worthy of keeping, clothing aside — his music collection, jewelry, art supplies — but it still made for a heavy load. He was fortunate that Kouyou had agreed to help out, as two people could carry twice the weight. Takanori was grateful that he didn’t have to do it alone.

Packing the remaining stuff away into bags taken from the kitchen, Takanori stood up straight, stretching. “That’s pretty much it.” He found Kouyou sitting on his bed, looking at his emptied shelves, the now vacant drawers of his closet, something in his expression that Takanori couldn’t put a finger on.

Either way, Kouyou didn’t say a word about it. “Time to go?”

Depositing the key back where he found it, they left, Kouyou with the now taped shut cardboard box and a grocery bag stuffed full with everything that didn’t fit elsewhere, Takanori with the duffel bag. It was heavier than it needed to be, sure, but it contained nearly everything he owned and Takanori would rather be damned than lose it. 

He had found his own set of keys in his room, but decided against taking it — what was the point, if he wasn’t welcome? As a final act of fuck you to his parents, as well as a thank you-gift to Kouyou, Takanori had broken into the liquor cabinet and grabbed the fanciest bottle he could find, which had turned out to be a sizeable bottle of sake. Kouyou had only chuckled in amusement as he watched, not saying a word, neither to stop nor encourage Takanori from stealing expensive alcohol one last time.

He wondered if Kouyou knew he’d stolen his last present, too.

The addition of Takanori’s few possessions did the unruly state of Kouyou’s flat no favors, but Kouyou didn’t seem to mind. Once they returned, they simply went to catch their breath on the sofa, taking a well-deserved rest and leaving the bags on the floor.

It was a few days later when Takanori got around to unpacking. It seemed so little, now that he really took a good look at it all. A large amount of clothes as well as his art supplies, yes, but otherwise… jewelry, makeup, music and his small CD player. His laptop. They hardly took up space at all.

The door to the bathroom opening grabbed his attention, and he turned around from where he was crouched by his belongings to see Kouyou exiting the bathroom, all dressed up, phone in hand. 

“I’m going out.”

“Oh yeah?” Takanori said, “Where to?”

“To the outside world.” The look he received in reply was mildly amused, but there was something cold and cautious hiding behind it as Kouyou answered, “A friend’s place.”

There was a warning there, something that told Takanori to leave it at that; and so he did, saying goodbye and watching as Kouyou got his boots, slid his sunglasses on, and left. Takanori was left staring at the door, at his bagged possessions spread out in front of him.

A _friend_ , huh. He found himself wondering if that friend was Akira, someone he had known at least since before high school, maybe since they were little… Takanori didn’t know. But then why would Kouyou dress up like he was trying to impress?

There was a small prickling of something Takanori refused to acknowledge as jealousy. Maybe Kouyou was lying. Maybe he was going to see Kai, whoever that was, maybe he was going downtown, but it was only afternoon and way too early to be drinking… Takanori didn’t know. It was frustrating, being so clueless. With an unnecessary amount of force, he tore strips of tape from his cardboard box, rummaging around until he found that sketchpad that he had hid between two canvases when Kouyou wasn’t looking.

Somehow, he felt a strange sort of hurt. And didn’t Takanori have the right, after everything that had happened recently? His face was still bruised, the physical proof of his struggles still evident. But there was also that inescapable guilt… deceiving Kouyou like he was doing. Having the book with the drawings of blind boy, having his videos in Kouyou’s very home. He should have thrown it all away, Takanori knew, but… he couldn’t. 

Those drawings meant too much to him. So did the videos. It didn’t matter if it was just weird porn — without it, he’d still be stuck in that convenience shop, still be rotting away in his room in his parents' apartment.

Closing the book shut, Takanori put it back in the box, hidden in the very bottom where it could not easily be found, and pulled out his unfinished painting. Overthinking wouldn’t get him anywhere, but maybe he could spend his time responsibly. 

Maybe he could paint, maybe take art more seriously, like what he had told Akira, even if he had mostly been thinking out loud at the time. Become a real artist. A designer. Anything. And if it would help distract Takanori from his intrusive thoughts, all the better.

It was late in the evening when the jingle of keys by the door alerted Takanori that he was no longer alone. Quieting the music he had been playing, he sat up straighter just as Kouyou came in. He gave him a quick greeting, and then Kouyou dumped two heavy grocery bags on the floor, dimming the lights and taking his shades off.

Takanori got to his feet. The contents of the bags were nearly spilling out. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you get something edible.”

“Well you live with me now, so I guess I have to provide for us both,” Kouyou said, shrugging his boots off. “Can’t have you starving to death just because I was too lazy to buy food.”

“I’m sure I will be very grateful,” Takanori chuckled, beginning to put the groceries away. “Can I ask you something?”

Kouyou was standing by the table, looking over Takanori’s work. “Sure.”

“... are you expecting me to pay rent?”

“What?” He looked surprised. “Of course not. I don’t pay it myself. You can’t even afford to.”

Maybe Takanori hadn’t needed to ask, but it did put his mind at ease. “I have my savings, but… yeah. Just wondering.”

“Still a stupid question. By the way...” Kouyou waved Takanori over. “I have something for you.”

Curious, Takanori joined him, watching as Kouyou fished something metallic out of his jeans pocket and pushed it into Takanori’s hands.

It was a key. “You shouldn’t have to rely on me to get in and out of the apartment,” Kouyou said, as though it needed explaining, “So I got you your own key. I go out a lot, so you’ll probably need it.”

“Oh?” Takanori closed his hand; the metal was warm. “Where do you go?”

A shrug. “Places, people. I get bored sitting around here all day... and this part of town is so quiet. Life’s out there, you know.” Then he turned, heading to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Takanori was left by the couch, his new key in hand, music still playing softly.


	20. Chapter 20

The clouds above Tokyo were heavy, yet devoid of rain, something electric hanging in the cool autumn air. Kouyou had disappeared earlier, yet again without saying where he was going, but with his new key Takanori was allowed to come and go as he wished. It was good to have that kind of freedom.

And it was good to be out and about, even if he had nothing to really do aside from window shopping, which was always entertaining. Not like he had money to waste, jobless as he was, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to look. That’s as far as he went, though. He knew better than to spend money irresponsibly when he had no income.

Akira was busy, school and work monopolizing his life once more; annoying as it was, he had promised to make time for them to meet up again. Despite how belated his concern had been — and the fact it was delivered over the phone — it was still good to know he still cared, clearing time from his busy schedule to listen to Takanori rant and tell a shorter, guilt-free version of what had happened with his parents.

For all that Takanori kept the full truth to himself, Akira’s compassion was, at least, genuine.

The bruise on his face was fading, too. Now little more than a sickly smattering of green where his mother’s fist had met Takanori’s cheek, he had only needed to apply a light layer of makeup, choosing to style his softening hair to cover the injured side of his face before heading out. Just in case. Besides, it had started to feel nice when his hair brushed against his skin, strands no longer stiff and dry like when they were freshly bleached.

It was on his way home, fingers digging through empty pockets, that Takanori realized he had smoked his last cigarette. He wasn’t sure if it was out of glee or convenience that he chose to turn around and head to the store.

Besides, it was beginning to be a while.

“Hello again,” Fujimoto greeted him as he approached. “Come to gloat?”

“Actually I came for smokes,” Takanori said. “But that too. How are things?”

“About as you’d expect.” Fujimoto plucked a box of cigarettes from the shelf, well aware which brand he preferred, tossing it onto the counter to scan. “I’m suffering alone here, you know. Boss found some fresh meat to replace you. They’re as clueless as you were when you started.”

“That’s pretty unfair, you started working here around the same time as me,” Takanori chuckled as he handed the money over. “He making them miserable yet?”

“Of course he is. Poor kids had no idea what they signed up for.” She smirked. “Life as a free man must be treating you well, you look lively.”

“That a compliment, Fujimoto?”

She rolled her eyes. “Dream on, Matsumoto.”

Leaving the store, he found himself in a remarkably good mood. It had only been a few days, but it was still good to get out for a bit, even if it was just for walk and a cigarette run… lighting it, Takanori sat down on Kouyou’s bench in the park opposite the store. He wondered if he should go back yet. Kouyou wasn’t home, probably wouldn’t be in a while yet, and all he had to keep himself occupied was his laptop and unfinished paintings… but it was starting to get a little late, and he was feeling slightly hungry.

And he was craving for something sweet. Maybe, Takanori decided, he should give Kato’s shop a visit and treat himself to something. Jobless or not, he could afford that much. Releasing a heavy puff of smoke in the air, he stood up from the bench, making his way through the maze of buildings that lead to the tiny coffee place. It had to be nearing closing hours by now, Takanori thought as he snuffed out the remaining cigarette with his shoe before pulling the door open and entering. 

The warm smell of coffee wafted pleasantly around him, bells jingling as he stepped inside. It was nearly empty at this hour, and Kato looked up from where she was scrubbing a nearby table.

“Ah, Matsumoto!” she called out, moving to the counter to take Takanori’s order. “Good to see you again!”

“Good day to you too,” he said, looking through the menu as he weighed his options. “Hey, you know my name, how come you don’t use it, Kato?”

“What?” She looked perplexed. “Why, that’d be rude, of course.”

“Just wondering… I mean, I have been coming here regularly for a while.” The cake seemed like a good choice. “And since you call Kouyou by his first name, I assumed you would do the same with me.”

“Do you want me to?” she asked, sounding amused as she took his order, getting the slice from the display and setting it on the counter. “I call Kouyou by his first name because he asked me to. He said he preferred it that way. I figured he comes around enough that it wouldn’t be too strange for either of us.”

“Oh,” Takanori said. “He never told me that.”

“Perhaps he didn’t think it necessary.” She smiled at him. “Anything to drink?”

Picking up his plate of freshly purchased cake, Takanori shook his head. “I’m good, thanks…” he trailed off, stopping in his tracks. He’d been meaning to go to their seat by the window, but it was occupied, a man he couldn’t recall seeing before sitting in Takanori’s usual chair, back turned to them and head lowered. Dark hair trailed down to his shoulders. 

A tall glass of Irish coffee stood half-empty on the table. “Hey Kato,” Takanori said, his voice lowered, gesturing towards the stranger. “Any chance Kouyou has been here today?”

“He left a while before you arrived, why?” She followed his gaze just as the man reached for the glass, seeming to stare into it. “Ah. You noticed.”

“That one of his friends?”

“Kouyou left pretty quickly after he arrived, so I wouldn’t say so,” Kato murmured. “They were arguing about something. Poor kid seemed upset, he didn’t even get to drink his coffee.”

“I see.” Takanori shrugged, choosing to sit down at a table closer to the counter, silently observing as the man took a sip of the coffee. He gestured towards the stranger. “That a regular of yours?” Kato shook her head.

Though he was enjoying his cake, Takanori couldn’t help but glance up every now and then as the man slowly drank. Soon enough the glass was empty, though, and the man stood from his seat. He kept his face carefully neutral as he headed for the door, catching Takanori’s gaze for a brief second. 

The dark eyes made Takanori squirm, if only slightly.

“Have a good evening,” Kato called out as the man left, but she got no reply, huffing in annoyance once he was gone. “How rude.”

Takanori could only hum in sympathy. “Did he even buy anything?”

“He did not,” she sighed. “But he has been here a few times before, and I would rather not pour my coffee down the pipes, so I let him stay.”

“So that was Kouyou’s drink? What was he doing here?”

“Kouyou comes and goes as he wishes,” Kato confirmed. “Speaking of, he tells me you two live together now. Is that true?”

Takanori nodded. “What else is he saying about me?”

“Ah, not much. Kouyou isn’t really one for conversation… at least not the kind you can learn anything from, as I am sure you know.” He nodded in agreement. After half a year, he knew that much to be true.

Sighing, Kato looked out the windows. The sky outside was darkening. “There’s a storm coming,” she said.

“Is it? Shit, I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not that kind of storm.”

He paused, unsure what to make if Kato of all people started talking in riddles. “What do you mean?”

“There won’t be any rain.” Grabbing a rag, she begun to wipe the counter again. “I need to close up. You should go, and make sure you get back home by the time it hits. It was nice seeing you, Matsumoto.”

Though he knew Kato had all but thrown him out, Takanori still found himself in relatively high spirits, going home. The clouds were heavy above the city, but the air was dry, and the streets were eerily devoid of people. Sure enough, there was a storm well on its way, the first strike of lightning hitting just as he entered Kouyou’s building. It made him hurry in his steps.

When he entered the dim flat, he could tell that something was wrong. Although the lights were on and Kouyou’s boots stood by the door, it was… quiet. Deathly still, almost, apart from the heavy thunder.

Takanori shrugged his shoes off and hung up his leather jacket. “Kouyou,” he called out. “You home?” 

Nothing, for a moment. Lightning flashed again. A kitchen cabinet stood open, the stolen bottle of stolen sake on the table by the TV, nearly full but with its cap off. Takanori glanced at it, before he called out again, warily this time. 

“Taka?” Kouyou’s voice sounded thin. “I didn’t know you were back.”

Kouyou held the door of the bathroom open, dressed the same as he was before heading out that morning. By the looks of him, he’d made no move to change into comfier clothes. That was a rarity.

“I just came in,” Takanori said, not failing to notice the unease in Kouyou’s frame. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, just—” A bolt of light flashed across the sky; cutting himself off, Kouyou flinched where he stood, almost cowered in place, hands shooting up to cover his face. The movement was uncharacteristically ungraceful. Takanori raised a brow as Kouyou murmured a vicious curse under his breath, regaining his posture. “It’s just… storms, they make me nervous.”

Takanori wanted to laugh, because it should have been funny. Somehow, it wasn’t. “You afraid of lightning?”

“Don’t mock me, Taka.”

“Sorry.”

He closed the door, disappearing back into the bathroom. Lightning struck yet another time as Takanori took a seat on the couch, twisting the sake bottle’s cap back on for safety before reaching for the remote. Turning the TV on, he flipped through channels to find something worth watching. Boring. Uninteresting. Already seen it. News. The next flash lit up the entire apartment, accompanied by a loud clashing sound that seemed to come from the television itself. Startled, Takanori jumped, and the television died along with the lights as the power cut. The setting sunlight was hidden behind the thick storm clouds, leaving the apartment in the dark.

He wanted to swear, throw his head back and groan in annoyance because seriously, _fuck_ storms, but the banging noise he could make out from the bathroom made him pause; it sounded almost desperate.

Takanori shot up, making for the door. Not adjusted to the darkness, his eyes were half-blind, so grabbing his phone from his pocket, Takanori activated it and held it out like a flashlight. Knocking on the door, he called out, “You okay?”

He jumped as Kouyou all but tore the door open, only to harshly turn away as the light from the phone reached his eyes. “No—” he cut himself off, pushing past Takanori. “Keep that away from me. The power died.”

Unsure of what to do, Takanori closed his phone, and the room went dark once more. “It did,” he said dumbly. “Uh, are you okay?”

It was a stupid question, because Kouyou was obviously _not_ okay. Yet Kouyou nodded his head, backing away until he hit the back of the sofa, sliding down to the floor, pulling his legs to his chest. “I’m fine, it’s nothing,” he said through clenched teeth. “The power will be back in a few minutes… hell, what am I saying, no it won’t—” another flash of lightning illuminated the room for the briefest of moments, and he cowered again, wide eyes trained on the window, on the rainless storm outside.

If anything, he couldn’t be any less okay. 

Takanori didn’t understand. If he was this afraid of thunderstorms, why didn’t he just try to block them out? Frowning, Takanori went to the window, meaning to close the blinds when Kouyou all but yelled, “Don’t!”

He stopped in his tracks, hands still on the cord as he stared openly in confusion, taken off guard. “But the lightning…”

“Don’t leave me in the dark,” Kouyou said, his voice muffled as he covered his mouth with a hand, still staring. “Please.”

Whatever Takanori had been expecting, it was anything but _this_. He hadn’t seen Kouyou act so out of it since… not since that night. Carefully Takanori backed away from the window, approaching Kouyou and slowly crouching down next to him. Hoping to be of some comfort, he laid a hand on his shoulder. Kouyou flinched away.

Takanori withdrew. He didn’t know what to think.

“Last time it took them an hour to get it running again,” Kouyou whispered, his whole body tensed in anticipation for the next strike. “I don’t know how long the storm will last—” Another crack split the sky, a close one. The terror in Kouyou’s face in that brief second was one Takanori knew he wouldn’t forget.

Takanori didn’t know what to do as he watched Kouyou all but break down in front of him. Kouyou’s eyes were wide, his breath labored as he stared into the darkness, failing to find comfort in his surroundings and shaking every time the room went bright again. Despite his aversion to light, he never closed his eyes, barely even seemed to blink, and despite how Takanori struggled to see, he _did_ notice when those eyes landed on him.

Kouyou’s hands were on his arms then, fingers tightening in the sleeves of Takanori’s sweater as he found his friend hovering before him, suddenly so close that he shrunk back instinctively. He’d barely gotten the mind to question what was happening when Kouyou leaned in, pressing a hand to his mouth and lips to his ear, “Can I fuck you?”

He knew he should have recoiled. By all rights, it would be the natural reaction, but all Takanori managed was to stare dumbly into those dark eyes he could hardly see but for the lightning that made Kouyou jump, startled and afraid. And yet, for all he knew he should say no, Takanori could only nod, not even asking why.

Above him, Kouyou was shaking all the while. He had Takanori prop himself up on the back of the sofa, not bothering to undress either of them as Kouyou’s trembling hands fumbled with the zipper of Takanori’s pants. And Takanori’s mind was racing, because was this really happening? Was he really going to fuck Kouyou, right here, right now, on the floor of Kouyou’s apartment in a lightning storm for seemingly no reason?

The hand in his pants was unsteady, but not clumsy; he released a low moan. Whatever was going on between them, it seemed to have a calming effect on Kouyou. But when Takanori attempted to return the favor, his hands were pushed away. “Don’t move,” Kouyou whispered firmly, barely audible over the thunder. “Don’t touch me.”

And Takanori obeyed, forcing himself to remain still as Kouyou shrugged his own pants down to his knees. His breaths were shallow; Takanori didn’t know if it was from the storm or what was about to happen. Likely both. He knew his own breath matched, but unlike Kouyou, Takanori didn’t fear the lightning. 

He had no reason to.

There was the sound of a wrapper being torn, and then Kouyou was sliding a condom down Takanori’s length. Takanori bit his lips; it was difficult to resist reaching up to touch, but he had been told not to, and he wasn’t going to go against Kouyou’s wishes; not when it came to this. Not when he had wanted this for so long, not to mention his own actions last time they were intimate… 

Takanori bit his lip, forcing the memory from his mind. Kouyou was straddling him, situated himself just above, his hands placed on Takanori’s shoulders for support. They tightened sharply at another flash of lightning, before relaxing, and Takanori looked up questioningly when Kouyou didn’t move.

“Promise me,” Kouyou murmured, “promise me that you want this to happen.”

He didn’t need to think twice. “I do,” Takanori replied, and it was all Kouyou needed, slowly beginning to slide down, and Takanori gasped. “Fuck, I do.”

Kouyou didn’t say a word, hissing lowly as he slowly impaled himself on Takanori’s cock, and still Takanori did not dare to move, did not raise his hands to grab, to touch, as much as he wanted to.

Faintly, Takanori wondered if this was right. Everything about it was different, _wrong_ , but he couldn’t go back now. He didn’t want to. And as Kouyou fucked himself on his body, Takanori finally dared the first, faint thrust against Kouyou’s hips, relieved when he found it was allowed, that he could stop being completely passive and work himself deeper into the warm body that was less tight than he had imagined it would be.

But this was _blind boy_ above him. And after all the videos he had seen, all the pictures, how could Takanori expect anything else?

_Whore._

He dismissed the word, and all the thoughts that resounded within it. It was only the moment that mattered, only the flash of light in the apartment as Kouyou stopped briefly, only to lean forward and rest his forehead against Takanori’s, breathing through his teeth before slowly moving again. He grabbed Takanori’s hands in his own, clutching them as they fucked, and squeezed them tightly each time the lightning struck outside. It was all Takanori could do to squeeze back.

Kouyou continued to ride him, eventually bringing Takanori to completion. All the while he kept that contact, their foreheads touching and fingers entwined, only letting go so he could reach down and finish himself.

When he was done, neither of them said a word. Kouyou rolled off, righted his clothes and left to throw away the spent condom. He ran his hands under the kitchen sink and dried them on his shirt, before returning to curl up like a cat next to Takanori, burying his face in Takanori’s sweater. He stayed silent and didn’t move, even as the lightning clashed. Lying there, all Takanori could do was catch his breath, fix his pants and gently stroke Kouyou’s hair.

“Kouyou,” he asked after an eternity of nothing but shaky unease and thunder. “What happened to you?”

Only then did Kouyou move, shifting his head so his cheek was pressed against Takanori’s side, allowing Takanori to brush the stray locks of hair out of his eyes.

“Ever stared at the sun?” he murmured quietly. “It blinds you. Takes something away from you, and when you look away it has left you with a broken vision.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah,” Kouyou said, “I did.”

Turning his face again, he disappeared back into his shell. As though that explained anything, like those few words held the key to every single one of Takanori’s questions. He wanted to ask, wanted to force the words from Kouyou’s mouth, get answers out of him because it just didn’t make any _sense_ ; but there was something that stopped Takanori, something that told him that for now, it was all he needed to know. He would get no more out of Kouyou.

At least not tonight.

So he stayed quiet, letting his fingers brush Kouyou’s smooth hair, staring into the darkness as lightning split the sky time and time again, before the storm passed. 

Eventually the power came back on, and when it did, Kouyou stood up. He righted his clothes and offered Takanori a hand to help him to his feet, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just taken place. Pretending like it was normal. For all that Takanori knew, it could have been.

“Let’s go to bed,” Kouyou said, his usual smile back in place. “I’m beat.”


	21. Chapter 21

Standing under the shower, Takanori found himself going through the events again and again, just as he had the majority of the night. Nothing. He still couldn’t make sense of it. Kouyou had locked himself in the bathroom for the storm, and then ran out after the blackout, only to have a panic attack on the living room floor… and then out of nowhere, the sex. Sex Takanori should have said no to, he knew, but done was done, and while he didn’t exactly regret it he was left to wonder what was going on in Kouyou’s mind. And now Kouyou wasn’t saying anything.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was certainly behaving like normal, but he was neglecting to say anything about what had happened. 

Drying himself off, Takanori fixed his gaze on the dimmed lamplight overhead. It was the only source of light in the room.

_Ever stared at the sun…_

“—look, I don’t care what you say. Just don’t do it again,” Kouyou said, snapping his phone shut, glancing up as Takanori stepped out of the bathroom. “Oh, hey, Taka. Want to know something funny?” His lips stretched into a lopsided smirk. “Saw that creepy coworker of yours the other day.”

That gave Takanori pause. “Wait— what, really? Ishida?”

“So that’s his name,” Kouyou laughed. “He was hanging out in the same bar as me, alone and staring at his feet. Then he looked up, saw me, and ran.”

“Huh. That _is_ funny,” Takanori said as he grabbed a cup from the kitchen, wanting to get some morning tea. “I didn’t even know he was still alive, no one’s heard from him since he quit. Where were you?”

“Eh, far away. Practically other end of the city.”

“Wonder if he’s stalking you,” Takanori murmured, filling his cup. Kouyou chuckled. So Ishida was still around, was he? That… could prove interesting. Especially considering recent events. “Say, Kou,” Takanori began tentatively. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

“... what?” It took a second before the words sank in. “I practically _live_ in the dark. What gave you that impression?”

“Yesterday,” Takanori answered, and Kouyou sighed, averting his eyes. “That, and lightning, you were freaking out about it. There are no windows in the bathroom. Is that why you were holed up in there until the power cut?”

“I don’t like being interrogated, Taka.”

“Maybe not, but I feel like I have the right to a few questions after last night. You scared me, you know.”

Sighing in annoyance, Kouyou sat up, putting his phone away and turning to glare at Takanori. “Sorry,” he said. “I was drunk. I don’t know.”

“Didn’t seem like it,” Takanori muttered, stirring his tea. “How drunk were you?”

“Very.”

Takanori hummed, considering. While Kouyou had been pretty out of it, he hadn’t been under the impression it was because of alcohol. Apart from the sake bottle that barely looked touched, there was nothing in the apartment when he came home, no distinctive smell to hint at inebriation _that_ severe. And Takanori had already seen Kouyou dead drunk, seen his apartment littered with bottles, smelled and tasted the booze off of him.

He knew what it was like.

As if sensing his distrust, Kouyou got off the couch, taking his jacket off the coat rack. He was leaving, Takanori realized glumly; he was running away again. Sipping slowly, Takanori watched Kouyou throw the jacket on before moving to get his boots on as well. “I don’t know what to think, Kouyou.”

“Well,” Kouyou said, attempting a smile that was probably meant to be comforting, but felt more twisted than anything else. “You’re right that I hate lightning. If you need something to blame, blame the storm. Or do you regret it?”

“I don’t regret it if you don’t,” Takanori said after a moment. “I just think we need to talk.”

“Then nothing is wrong, because I regret nothing. And what’s to talk about? We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Friends generally don’t fuck each other on the floor just because of some bad weather, Kouyou.”

Kouyou pressed his lips together. “I think you’ll find there are plenty of benefits to my friendship,” was all he said, pulling a pair of shades from the pocket of his jacket. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where are you going?”

He looked about to reply, but thought better of it. “Later, Taka.” And with that, Kouyou was out the door before Takanori got the chance to say another word.

Takanori remained in the living room for a long time, lost in pondering as his tea slowly turned cold. He wasn’t surprised. As frustrating as it was, Kouyou had the habit of refraining from answering questions, so Takanori had expected nothing less. But this time, Kouyou’s abrupt leave had felt more like him running away than anything else, like he chose to flee rather than face his own actions.

Appetite gone, Takanori poured the tea out in the sink. He wondered how long Kouyou was planning to stay out. Where he was going. Probably to see his _friends_ again, he thought. Were they the ones who left bruises along Kouyou’s throat, on the back of his neck? Were they the ones who opened and stretched his body until they could easily enter, so easy that Kouyou could lower himself down on their cocks with little effort the way he had last night?

_Friendship._ He bitterly remembered the exchanges he’d read between Kouyou and Kai. And what of Akira? Sure, he seemed to genuinely know him, but was he one of Kouyou’s ‘friends’ as well, another to reap the benefits? Maybe even Midori had been. Kouyou claimed to be gay, but for all Takanori knew he could have been lying about that as well.

What did friendship even mean to Kouyou?

The questions were hard to expel from his mind, Kouyou’s words echoing in his head. _Plenty of benefits._ Sighing, he grabbed his laptop from the table, moving to the bedroom. He wondered if it even mattered. Takanori hadn’t been the friendliest guy himself for as long as he had lived in Tokyo, and that, coupled with his tendency to isolate himself, meant his list of friends had pretty much been limited to Akira and Kouyou… and then there was Ishida, who’d sent him porn for months, a clingy creep who had considered Takanori a friend.

He wondered what Ishida would say if he knew what had transpired last night. And he was still around somewhere, hiding out in the city, hanging alone in bars… Takanori knew he should stop, knew he should listen to the nag of his conscience as he sat down on the bed and opened his laptop, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Kouyou sure hadn’t seemed like he cared much, before he ran off.

Normally, Takanori was the type of person who received mail, practically never sending any himself, much less this kind. This time however, he made the effort, typing out his message, short as it was, and sending it. Just the thought of Ishida reading it was enough to brighten his mood significantly. He could imagine Ishida’s expression; his mouth falling open in surprise, eyes blazing with jealousy, bitter with the knowledge that he had nobody to blame but himself… it made it all the better. 

But to Takanori’s surprise, when he returned to his computer a few hours later there was mail waiting in his inbox. It was from Ishida, and uncharacteristically short:

> _Prove it_

He hadn’t actually expected an answer. Much less like this, though Takanori shouldn’t have been surprised. The smug feeling of satisfaction still remained, knowing he had succeeded where Ishida had chosen to tuck his tail between his legs and flee. Takanori hadn’t felt that in a while, that sensation of pride that came along with knowing he was superior to someone… especially with everything that had happened lately. And maybe he had divulged too much information, telling Ishida about the sex, about his status, living with Kouyou — or rather, with blind boy. He had shared no details, of course. Nor did he plan to; Kouyou’s secrets and vulnerabilities were to remain his own.

He wasn’t stupid enough to tell someone like Ishida where Kouyou lived.

But Takanori still replied. Why he should have to prove anything? Maybe he was acting too cocky for his own good, but he felt deserving of it. Sending the mail he settled to wait, suspecting he didn’t have to wait long before Ishida answered. And he was correct; it didn’t take much before Ishida eventually gave up. 

_What do you want from me_ , Ishida wrote. Takanori could practically feel the desperation resound from the characters on screen, and he knew he’d won. He didn’t need to think very hard about what to answer and typed out his mail, slowly and with precision.

> _I want information on blind boy. And more of him. I know you lied to me about where you got the videos from. How many are there and how did you get the files?_

He was practically shaking with excitement as he waited for the reply.

> _There are about 60 different vids of him I know abt. I have ca half of them. Got pics too_  
>  You had to buy via special network but it got taken down  
>  Videos are no longer in circulation. you want them, you need to find someone who has them and is willing to sell  
>  (like me) 

Takanori hesitated; he _knew_ Ishida, and was well aware of what Ishida wanted. Still, thirty videos was nothing to shrug at, considering what his own meager collection consisted of…

> _What do you want in exchange?_

This time he didn’t need to wait long:

> _I want him  
>  I know you won’t give him but you can tell me things. Show me things. Info. Pics. Stories.  
>  Take a pic of him. Prove you aren’t lying. Send to me. I will give you vid in return_

It was strangely easy to agree.

 

Evening was approaching when Kouyou finally returned, rock music playing from Takanori’s CD player to keep him entertained while he painted. Takanori had ended up occupying the entire sofa, as well as the table, with his supplies and himself, canvas propped up in front of him while he worked.

When he got no greeting, Kouyou rolled his eyes. “Hey to you as well,” he muttered in feigned annoyance, taking his shoes off. Moving to the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, watching as Takanori continued to paint, dotting small brush strokes along the canvas in rhythm with the music.

Silently Kouyou came up behind him, Takanori not noticing his presence until it was made known as he opened his beer can. “Looks nice,” Kouyou said. Takanori grunted in acknowledgement, too focused to really notice his words, or talk. “What are we listening to?”

He put the brush down, turning to look at Kouyou, carefully smoothing away the smirk that was fighting its way to his face. “This? It’s Luna Sea’s last album. You used to be a fan, right? You never heard this?”

Kouyou only hummed in reply, but Takanori noticed how tense Kouyou suddenly had become. “Not really. But, well…” he trailed off, then shrugged awkwardly. “I’ll take a shower.” And he had fled to the bathroom before Takanori could get a chance to say anything. 

Granted, Kouyou coming home just as he was listening to that particular album was a coincidence, but Takanori had put it on halfway hoping that Kouyou would return, just so he could see his reaction. He hadn’t forgotten Kouyou’s music collection, the gift-wrapped CD that was collecting dust in his closet along with the guitar. The same album that he was playing right now, that he knew Kouyou probably wouldn’t recognize, since he had likely never listened to it.

He was only slightly disappointed, but at least there was something there. Picking his brush back up to continue his work, he could hear the sound of the water running in the bathroom.

Kouyou often showered when he came home, that was one thing Takanori hadn’t failed to notice. A few minutes later and Kouyou appeared again, towel slung around his neck and dressed in his customary oversized nightshirt, the can of beer from earlier in hand. He didn’t pay Takanori any attention as he went to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

A few hours passed before Takanori said himself done with his painting, at least for now — he would probably finish it next time he sat down to work. It had gotten late. Once his supplies were cleaned and put away, Takanori went to prepare for bed, scraping paint away from underneath his fingernails. He wondered if Kouyou was asleep yet as he brushed his teeth. The music was still playing, but softer now, volume turned down low. Takanori turned it off on his way to the bedroom, put the CD back in its case and grabbed his phone. Opening the photo app, he carefully slid the door open.

Kouyou was most definitely still awake, lying on his side, long legs pale and graceful in the dim light pouring out from the doorway. He was wearing sunglasses, handheld console illuminating his face, not looking up as Takanori entered. The sudden flash of light from the camera did startle him, though.

“The hell?” Kouyou exclaimed, sitting up, console forgotten in his hands. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

Takanori smiled apologetically. “Just thought you looked cute.”

“Funny,” Kouyou said drily, unamused. “Delete it.”

“What a waste of a great photo,” Takanori said, but when Kouyou’s steely expression failed to change, he shook his head. “Fine, fine.” Quickly he opened the mail app. The photo was by no means fantastic — washed out with flash, Kouyou’s skin looked almost white on the sheets, and his lips were set in concentration. It was still way better than Ishida deserved, but file sent, Takanori snapped the phone shut. “There. All gone,” he said, closing the door behind him and making himself comfortable on the bed. Kouyou snorted, directing his attention back to the game. “I had no idea you could be so boring.”

“You know how I feel about flashing light.” He was frowning. “Don’t take pictures of me.”

“Even with the sunglasses?”

“Even then.”

Takanori wondered if he hated it before as well, back when he was photographed collared, bare and blindfolded; if he could feel the flashes despite not seeing them, or if his eyes were opened wide behind the fabric. “What if I turned the flash off?”

“No means no, Takanori.”

“Alright then,” Takanori muttered, settling against the pillows. No photos? That meant he’d have to be careful. Pulling his phone back out, he flipped it open, deciding to amuse himself with some gaming of his own. They lay there silently for a while, neither saying a word. Still, Takanori couldn’t help but glance over at Kouyou every few minutes.

“Quit staring at me and say it.”

“What do you have against music, Kou?”

“What?”

“I’m just wondering, you seem to really… dislike it for some reason.”

Kouyou pursed his lips, pulling his console closer. “What brought this on? I have nothing against music, Taka. You should know, you’re wearing one of my band shirts right now.”

“But you refuse to acknowledge it. Or anything related to music, for that matter.” Kouyou sighed in exasperation, and Takanori crawled closer. “Remember when I tried to tell you about my band, once? You brushed me off.”

“I’ve just… lost the ability to care, okay?” Kouyou’s brows were furrowed. “If you really want to talk about your band, I’m not going to stop you.”

“No point if you’re not interested. Especially not if the only reason you want me to talk is so I can get it over with.”

“Taka…”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“In a band.”

Silence. Kouyou pressed his lips together, staring at Takanori through his dark lenses. “No,” he said after a moment.

A picture of Kouyou, of Shima, blue-haired and grinning with a guitar in his lap. That same guitar, hidden away in his closet. _Liar._

Though Takanori pulled away, he kept his gaze fixed on Kouyou. Thin rays of artificial light fell strangely gently on Kouyou’s face, his lips pursed, frame tensed either in concentration or expectation. A can of beer stood open on the bedside table. It was probably empty.

“You ran away from me this morning,” Takanori tried, and as expected, Kouyou’s posture only tightened further. “Why?”

“What’s with the questions tonight, Taka?”

“Just answer me.”

“I didn’t run from you, I had somewhere to be, alright?”

“Really? Where?”

“A friend’s place.”

“Really.” A _friend_. Takanori frowned. What else could it possibly have been? “Kouyou, why did you fuck me last night?”

Sighing, Kouyou lowered the console again. “Because you wanted me to.”

“Maybe you were imagining things, drunk as you say you were.”

“What, are you doubting me?” Kouyou scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Being drunk doesn’t make me stupid. Besides, you were pretty obvious… you have been for a long time.” 

“How do you know that? I’d never even been with a man before, you know.”

“You don’t need _experience_ in order to lust after someone, Taka.” Putting the console down, he moved closer, propping himself up on his elbows to hover just above Takanori. There was a smirk on his face when he continued, “And you were exactly as wanting as I thought you’d be. Don’t deny it.”

Takanori quieted, resisting the urge to laugh, to deflate the situation and jokingly push Kouyou away, instead simply staring up at Kouyou’s pale face above him in the dark, room illuminated only by the city lights outside and the screen of the handheld console lying on the mattress. It was a strikingly familiar scene. 

“I’m not going to deny anything,” Takanori said, strands of Kouyou’s long hair falling into his face. It tickled slightly. Reaching up, he gently took hold of the sunglasses, sliding them off. “I just want to know.”

Kouyou hummed. Pulling away, he lay back down on his side but remained close, his thumb gently stroking Takanori’s cheek where a bruise was slowly fading. It didn’t hurt. “I needed… release. You were there, and I knew you wouldn’t reject me… besides, you wanted it too. Maybe not like it happened, but…”

“Maybe we should have gone for a more comfortable place than the floor, yeah?”

He chuckled. “Maybe.”

The hand on the cheek was moving away; Takanori grabbed hold of his wrist, and Kouyou allowed it. He kept his eyes trained on him when Takanori sat up, pushing Kouyou flat against the mattress and moving to straddle him, entwining their fingers as he did so. Takanori felt strangely brave as he ran a finger down Kouyou’s cheekbone, tracing his jaw, ignoring the ghost of a hickey on the pale throat.

“I’d say this is pretty comfortable,” Takanori murmured, and he didn’t wait for a response before he leaned down to finally give Kouyou a kiss; a real one. It was slow and gentle compared to the kiss Kouyou had forced upon himself back when he was blackout drunk and desperate, though Takanori could still taste it, the bitterness of beer. But this time there was no defiance, no resistance or discomfort to it, just welcoming plush lips and a wet warmth.

Kouyou held onto the side of his face, tangling fingers in blond hair and laughing breathily when Takanori pulled away. “You taste minty,” Kouyou whispered. “Like toothpaste.”

He laughed, then. “Well, I did just brush my teeth.”

The shadow passing over Kouyou’s face went unnoticed. “I know.”


	22. Chapter 22

Takanori was confused. That’s not to say he was uncomfortable where he lay, pressed up close to Kouyou’s sleeping form, nuzzling into his neck and enjoying his body heat — if anything, it felt like heaven. But his mind was going into overdrive from all his unanswered questions that Kouyou either avoided or simply ignored, not to mention everything Takanori knew he could never say. And after last night, he only had more questions.

The fact that they didn’t have sex somehow only served to make it weirder. After the kiss they lay there together, practically cuddling, and the next thing Takanori knew it was morning, sunlight flowing in through the open blinds, Kouyou pressed up against him. It was almost as though they were lovers, rather than just roommates who enjoyed each other’s bodies and company… 

The fading spots of purple on Kouyou’s neck told a different story.

Gingerly brushing locks of hair away, he wondered who had put them there. Kouyou’s hickeys came and went, but it seemed he always had them… whoever it was, they clearly had a thing for branding him. And though he didn’t know where Kouyou went, Takanori did have a suspect in mind. At least his snooping on Kouyou’s phone had been good for something.

Releasing a deep breath, Takanori pressed his lips softly to Kouyou’s nape. He wondered if it hurt, getting them; if Kouyou enjoyed it, enjoyed being moved around like he was in the videos, if he enjoyed being used, being bruised. Tightening his arms around Kouyou’s waist, Takanori closed his eyes, pulling him closer. Against Kouyou’s lower back, he could feel himself hardening.

Kouyou was the one who moved first; moaning, he pulled from the embrace so he could turn around in Takanori’s arms, curling up again and burying his face in Takanori’s chest, away from the intruding light and into the comfortable darkness that was Takanori’s borrowed shirt. Somewhere halfway between asleep and waking, Kouyou clearly had no intentions to get up anytime soon.

Takanori reached up to stroke hair away from his eyes. “Morning, Kou.” All Takanori got in response was a small groan as Kouyou attempted to hide further into his chest. He chuckled. Sure, he’d witnessed this particularly scene many times before from all their sleepovers, but it had never been this close, never this… intimate.

And it wasn’t like he had fallen asleep next to Kouyou after sharing a kiss with him. That was a first.

The memory of the night was still deep-set in his mind. They hadn’t even done anything after he’d kissed Kouyou, hadn’t said so much as a word… they just cuddled up and drifted off to sleep. It was only now that he lay awake, Kouyou in his arms and his actions digested, that Takanori remembered why he’d stepped into Kouyou’s bedroom in the first place.

He wondered if Ishida had seen the photo yet, if he’d made good on his promise and sent a video; it had been late at the time, and now it was probably way too early, but Takanori sincerely hoped that Ishida had. It was a long time since he had seen anything new of blind boy.

A hand brushing against his crotch made Takanori lose his train of thought, though; in his arms, Kouyou shivered. Stretching just slightly, he murmured something indiscernible into Takanori’s chest, before finally raising his head, blearily blinking up at him. “Hey,” he said, voice gruff from sleep.

“Good morning,” Takanori replied, keenly aware of the hand that was still resting idly against his clothed erection. “Slept well?”

Lids fluttering shut, Kouyou hummed a reply as he lay his head back down, only to open his eyes again a moment later. “Oh,” he murmured. The hand beneath the covers moved, giving Takanori’s length a rub. “What’s this?” 

There was no way he didn’t notice Takanori involuntarily leaning into his touch, nor did Takanori miss Kouyou’s coy smile. “Hope it’s not a problem,” Takanori said, gasping as the fingers slipped into his boxers, deftly grabbing hold of his cock. “I take it you don’t mind.”

“Not in the slightest.” Kouyou looked more awake now, playful smirk on his lips as he slowly stroked Takanori, eyes half-lidded. 

Eventually he let go, pulling himself out of Takanori’s arms to sit up. Shoving the covers out of the way, Takanori shivered in the sudden cold air that enveloped him, only to be cut off as Kouyou straddled his lap.

“You seem happy today,” Takanori said as Kouyou worked his length free. “There a reason?”

“Not really,” Kouyou replied. “But this is a nice thing to wake up to. Would you like a morning fuck?”

Whatever chaos their gentle night together had caused in Takanori’s mind was somehow stabilized by Kouyou’s offer. “Of course,” Takanori could only say, because what man didn’t? “Mind if I ask why?”

“Hmm.” Kouyou didn’t answer, rocking himself in Takanori’s lap. “It just feels right, I guess.”

Neither of them lasted very long; it was probably the best way Takanori had ever started a day before, though Kouyou was strict with what he allowed him to do with his hands. Either Takanori could rest them idly on Kouyou’s legs, or he would have to keep them on the mattress. He was quick to learn this when he attempted to slide his hand up Kouyou’s oversized shirt, only to be slapped away.

Takanori didn’t ask, but he guessed it was how Kouyou liked it. Kouyou seemed to have a thing for control — he needed to be in charge of the situation, to the point where his partner could barely touch him, if at all. He refused to take his shirt off, but was more than happy to undress Takanori completely… it was probably some sort of power thing. Takanori didn’t really mind either way.

But as he watched Kouyou return to the bed after opening the window, wearing nothing but his night shirt and holding a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, another thought stuck in his mind, something Kouyou had told him while preparing himself, just moments before he slid down onto Takanori’s cock.

“I hope you understand,” he’d said, “that I am not exclusive.”

Takanori had forgotten about it, but now that they were done, release splattered on Takanori’s chest and between Kouyou’s thighs, he remembered, and he found himself wondering.

“Hey Kou,” Takanori said, stealing the cigarette. It looked dangerously close to touching the sheet, dangling from Kouyou’s hand where he lay stretched out next to him. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?” Kouyou said incredulously, sitting up. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t really think you do, I’m just curious,” Takanori defended. “Mostly because of your neck… and you go out so much, I just wonder.”

“Are you even listening to yourself right now? That’s a terrible question to ask someone you’ve just slept with,” Kouyou said, rolling his eyes. “And the answer is no, Taka. I don’t do boyfriends.”

“At all? There a reason?”

“It’s just not my style. I don’t like the idea of it, of… belonging to someone,” Kouyou said, rubbing his bruised neck. “Monogamy doesn’t suit me. And before you say anything, I did have a boyfriend once. That was more than enough for me.”

Not exclusive. Not anybody’s. 

_Not yours_ , his conscience whispered.

“Hm.” Takanori took another drag, before Kouyou reached out to reclaim his cigarette. “Did he cheat on you?”

“He was an asshole.”

“So he did.”

“No, he didn’t cheat,” Kouyou sighed, the thin cloud of smoke fading into the air. “But sometimes I wish that was the case.” Standing up, he took the beer can from his nightstand, dropping the cigarette into it. 

“That’s a waste of a perfectly fine smoke, you know,” Takanori grumbled. Kouyou just shrugged. “You wish he cheated? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Would have been easier if he had. Relationships are such a mess… I’d rather just keep it casual with someone I know I can trust.”

Takanori didn’t miss the invitation that lay there, and he forced a smile to match Kouyou’s own. “Yeah,” he agreed. Somehow the simple word was hard to say. “I guess I can understand that.” 

Kouyou hummed, tugging on his night shirt. It was sticky. “I need a shower… there’s come on my shirt.”

“Mind if I join you?” Takanori asked. He really needed to clean up, too, after that wakeup call — the release splattered on his chest had been easy to ignore earlier, but now it was cold, pretty gross, and only making him uncomfortable. 

“Sorry, my shower is one person only,” Kouyou said as he pulled clothes out of his dresser. Tucking the fresh clothing under his arm he stood up, the defiled beer can in hand. “There should be napkins in the nightstand. You can have the bathroom once I’m done.”

He turned to leave. “Hey Kouyou, wait,” Takanori called out, and Kouyou paused halfway through the door. “You said something earlier. That you’re not… exclusive.”

“... people have gotten their hopes up about me before,” Kouyou said, his voice taking a softer tone. “I just wanted you to know. You’re a good friend, Taka. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Takanori stayed still on the bed for a while, staring into the vacant spot in the doorway until he could hear the shower starting up. Only then he averted his eyes, sighing. God, what had they just done? What had they just become?

If someone told Takanori a few months ago that he’d one day enter a friends-with-benefits-relationship with blind boy himself, there was no way he’d believe them. The very idea would have been unthinkable, something he could dream of but never possibly hope come true — but now that it was actually happening, all he could feel was a heavy depression weighing him down.

It wasn’t just the guilt. It was the fact that Kouyou, despite claiming to trust Takanori, still lied straight to his face, it was the fact that even knowing that, Takanori still wanted more… but Kouyou didn’t.

He wondered if he could kiss him again.

Not that it really mattered much right now, Takanori supposed. And it was probably going to be a little while yet before Kouyou was done showering. Might as well do something while he waited. 

Opening the night stand, he looked inside for something to clean himself off with. Sure enough, a pack of napkins located rather far back behind a small wooden box. It looked strangely familiar, Takanori found himself thinking as he wiped his chest down, rolling the dirty napkin up and tossing it away. It didn’t take long for his curiosity to get the better of him, and he reached for the box, opening it — and it was only then he realized where he had seen it before, the face of a large dog staring attentively up at him from a glossy photo. His nails scraped against the surface of the box, and he swallowed thickly, staring into Keisuke’s dark eyes.

There was something else in there too. Takanori frowned, seeing what lay beneath — another picture, of a younger Kouyou standing in an open, grassy field, football tucked beneath his arm, lips stretched in a goofy grin, and next to him, a young Akira, similarly looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

One side of the photo was burned. Half of Kouyou’s form was swallowed by ash, the remaining part of him dyed a musty brown, like the picture had been set on fire and then hastily extinguished before any further damage could be done. There was nothing else in the box. 

From the bathroom, the sound of the water cut off. Takanori hastily put the photos back, putting the box where he’d found it, and he felt so angry in that moment, though he wasn’t sure why — but he did know that he’d seen a similar wooden box at Akira’s place, hidden away under his bed and filled with pictures from his youth. Photos of himself… and of Kouyou, from a time before.

 

“Your kidneys must hate you,” Takanori said. 

Kouyou paused in drizzling sugar over his liquor coffee to look up at Takanori through his sunglasses. He shrugged. “My kidneys appreciate your concern, but they’re fine.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Let’s not have this conversation again,” Kouyou sighed. “I treat you to coffee because I like you, not so you can talk like you’re my mom.”

Takanori was pretending to be fiddling with his phone, its sound muted and flash turned off as he waited for a decent shot. “Yeah? What’s she saying lately?”

“Just the usual. Stop wasting money on things you don’t need, be careful when out at night, play less video games, eat well, sleep well, keep the apartment tidy, and so on.” He took a slow sip, wiping the foam from his lips with his sleeve. “It’s mostly just nag anyway.”

“Well, she’s got a point with the drinking. And when’s the last time you cleaned our room?”

Kouyou chuckled; Takanori was quick to take the picture, saving it to send Ishida’s way later. “Alright, so maybe it’s been a while…” 

He snapped the phone shut, putting it away. “I don’t think I’ve seen you clean ever since I moved in.”

“Well, you want to, feel free to take matters into your own hands.”

“As if I’m going to do your job for you.”

“Hey, you’re my flatmate! I even let you stay for free! You should be the one to do it.”

“It said nothing about cleaning services on the contract.”

“Contract? As if there even is one,” Kouyou said, rolling his eyes. His voice was thick with laughter. “But sure, keep being a freeloader.”

“If you insist.”

Kato told them goodbye as they left. Kouyou was wearing his darkest pair of shades today, and they walked side by side through the falling snow. With his heavy jacket, leather boots and scarf Kouyou could easily have looked like any other delinquent, hadn’t it been for the sunglasses. Covered in a thin layer of white, the world was much too bright for his eyes; winter was not Kouyou’s favourite season.

Living together had turned out to be interesting, if uneventful. It had been a while since he moved in — Takanori spent most of his time in the flat, though he knew he should be doing something more productive, like finding a job, but he’d much rather spend his time doing art in the comfort of Kouyou’s home. 

Besides, Kouyou disappeared a lot, allowing Takanori to do as he wanted — whether it was watching TV, painting, or staring at blind boy… but when Kouyou was home, they could waste their time together, enjoying each other’s presence as friends and roommates, and when the mood struck, their bodies as well. Though Takanori knew he wanted more, he was willing to settle for the benefits to Kouyou’s friendship, at least for a while yet. 

But he wasn’t satisfied.

It wasn’t his annoying crush — though it definitely was part of his frustrations, the problem was far simpler; Kouyou still told him nothing. Takanori still _knew_ nothing. He didn’t know where Kouyou went on the many days he left the flat to see those ‘friends’ of his, he didn’t know who it was who left fresh bruises on his neck time and time again… and then there were _those_ nights… 

“What are you thinking about?”

He snapped out of his daze to see Kouyou handing him a freshly lit cigarette. “Ah, nothing.”

“Daydreaming?”

Takanori took a long drag, watching how the smoke hung heavily in the cold air; some distance away, he could see the familiar shape of a man, his dark figure a stark contrast to the sheen of falling snow and swirling cigarette fumes. “Yeah, pretty much.”

And then, there was the stranger.

Handing the cigarette back, he knew Kouyou had noticed the man’s presence too. Kouyou deliberately kept his distance as they turned the corner, strides slightly quicker than they would usually be, and all the while he kept his head high, attention focused on Takanori and the cigarette held tightly between his fingers.

Out of the maze of towering buildings they could finally see the park, but Takanori couldn’t shake that look the man had sent them — there was just something sad, almost pathetic in the way he’d looked at them when they walked past, before the man had finally left his spot and gone in the opposite direction towards Kato’s shop. Takanori knew that’s where he was heading. It wasn’t the first time they ran into the guy on the street, and he had spotted him several times at Kato’s over the past few weeks. 

No big deal. Takanori had at first just figured he was another down-on-his-luck-loner who longed for social stimuli and needed a healthy dose of caffeine to maintain his existence, but then he’d ran into the guy while he was out with Kouyou, and the atmosphere had immediately grown cold and stilted. The man would send longing looks Kouyou’s way while Kouyou refused to so much as glance in his direction. It was weird. 

Then again, Takanori had come to expect as much from spending as much time with Kouyou as much as he did — despite being laidback and surprisingly boring most of the time, Kouyou remained an unsolved riddle, but he was one Takanori was fine with putting off for as long as he could, because he was able to enjoy himself so damn much that way.

He couldn’t deny how much he wanted to know, but Takanori _hated_ asking questions. Not only because he was terrified that he’d let one wrong word slip and give himself away, but also because Kouyou hated answering them. It didn’t seem to matter what the question was, he’d wave it off with a shit explanation that told Takanori nothing, or simply settle for ignoring it. Worst of all, he’d close up completely, and Takanori would give up, because he knew that Kouyou wouldn’t talk. Not unless someone forced the words from his mouth… and even then he wouldn’t trust them to be the truth.

Taking the last drag of the cigarette, Takanori breathed out heavy smoke before dropping the butt and grounding it out with his shoe. Kouyou was settling by his bench, brushing away some snow before sitting down. Leaning his head back, he released a slow breath. Some habits died hard, Takanori figured, glancing across the park and into the wide windows of the convenience store.

“Hey Taka, do you ever miss your job?”

He didn’t need to think to answer. “Like hell,” Takanori grumbled. If he looked closely, he could see Fujimoto at the register. He pretended not to notice. “I miss having money, but that place was a shithole to work in.”

“Guess I won’t be shopping there again, then.” Kouyou wasn’t following his gaze, eyes turned to him behind dark lenses. “Maybe it’s time you start finding a new job.”

“Now you’re the one starting to sound like a nagging parent,” Takanori said, finally tearing his eyes away from Fujimoto’s form inside the store. “So that I can afford to get my own place? Eager to have the house to yourself again?”

“No, it’s not that,” Kouyou chuckled. “It’s just, you spend so much time sitting at home, and you don’t really do much or go anywhere… I worry for you sometimes, is all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Takanori asked, mildly insulted. “I’ve painted so much lately, and now you’re accusing me of doing nothing. You’re the one who told me to continue with art, remember?” He huffed, though there was no real bite to the words. “Here I thought you liked having me around.”

Kouyou wasn’t fazed. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said, tone softer. “I do enjoy your company. But… isolation is a dangerous thing, Taka. You know that, right?”

“Isolation?” Takanori paused. “Of course I know that,” he said, shrugging a layer of fresh snow from his hair. “With you around, I wouldn’t call it isolated. And it isn’t like I just sit around waiting all day when you’re away, I do go places, just… not that often.”

“Hm.” Kouyou glanced at the white sky above them, righted his sunglasses, and stood up. “Well, let’s go home.”


	23. Chapter 23

“You heading anywhere tonight?”

“What?” Kouyou looked up from his game momentarily, taking a second to process the question. “Wasn’t planning on it, why?”

“No reason, just wondering,” Takanori shrugged where he sat, angled so that Kouyou couldn’t look over and accidentally see what was open on his laptop. Not that he was stupid enough to watch that kind of shit right in front of Kouyou — he’d merely decided to check his inbox, and sure enough, Ishida had so gracefully mailed a video in return for the photos Takanori had sent him earlier that day.

“You just want the place for yourself,” Kouyou muttered.

“Got me there.”

Seemed he would have to wait before he could watch it. Not that he minded. Closing the laptop, Takanori put it on the table, finding a more comfortable position next to Kouyou, watching him play with mild interest. How Kouyou could waste so much time on video games was beyond Takanori. Sure, he occasionally borrowed Kouyou’s handheld, and they’d had a lot of fun playing a fighting game that one time (Takanori had been absolutely decimated, but then Kouyou invited him to bed afterwards and more than made up for it), but otherwise he couldn’t really see the appeal.

Nor could he understand why Kouyou, with his sensitive eyes, decided that video games would be the most efficient way to spend his time. Video games, with their flashy graphics, would leave anyone with sore eyes. Not to mention that they could be expensive as hell — there had to be a lot of money in the growing stack of games next to the television.

Kouyou owned some expensive shit for someone with no real income. 

Shutting his eyes, Takanori rubbed his temples; he could feel a slight headache coming on. How Kouyou could do this was beyond him. Maybe he should invest in his own light-cancelling shades to protect his eyes from flashing graphics when he was watching Kouyou game?

Or maybe it would just be a huge waste of money he didn’t really have. 

Takanori stood up. “I’m gonna go draw, or something.”

“Alright,” Kouyou muttered, distracted. He clearly wasn’t listening, intently focused on his game — understandable, as he was in the middle of a boss fight, by the looks of things. Shaking his head, Takanori went into the bedroom where his crate of art supplies currently was placed, beginning to rummage through it. He needed to get more canvases, if he was going to be painting anytime soon… 

He pulled out the sketch book from the bottom of the crate. Judging by the soundtrack and noisy gunshots, Kouyou was still occupied, so he quickly flipped through the book, taking a look at his drawings. Kouyou’s masked face stared blindly back at him. There were only a few blank pages left, Takanori noted. If he wanted to keep it up, he would have to buy a new one soon.

Stuffing the book back into hiding, Takanori grabbed for some papers and his marker set. Every time he went to get something from his crate, he couldn’t help but flip through the sketch book… he only drew in it the days when Kouyou was out and Ishida had sent him something new, but he would have to get a new one or be careful with how he used the remaining pages. There was no way he was going to erase anything. 

Placing the markers on the bedside table, he sat cross-legged on the mattress, blank paper in his lap and ready to get to work when his ears picked up on something. He had to strain to hear it over the loud game music still pouring out from the living room, but it was definitely there, an annoying buzzing noise.

And it sounded close. Lifting the heavy blankets, he found the source of the sound — Kouyou’s phone, silenced and vibrating loudly with an incoming call. Huh, Takanori thought. Kouyou must have forgotten it was there. Picking it up,he took a look at the screen; just an unfamiliar number, no caller ID. Disappointing.

“Hey, Kouyou,” he called out, going back to the living room. “Your phone’s ringing.”

Kouyou was hissing in frustration as his character took a rocket to the face. “What? Oh, thanks.” Quick to pause, he reached out to grab the phone from Takanori’s extended hand. Glancing at the number, he muttered something vile under his breath before standing up. “Excuse me for a bit,” he said, moving to the bathroom.

“Who is it?”

“Nobody you know,” was the only thing he heard before Kouyou shut the bathroom door behind him, locking it. Whoever was on the other line, Kouyou wanted to talk to them in privacy, away from prying eyes and delicate ears. It wasn’t unusual; Kouyou seemed to be on the phone a lot lately, but he never allowed Takanori to eavesdrop. 

Straining to listen, he couldn’t make out anything that made sense, but by the tone in his voice, Kouyou sounded rather upset. Angry, almost. He frowned. Backing off, Takanori retreated back into the bedroom to draw; he couldn’t hear what Kouyou was talking about through the door.

His hands itched with frustration as he sat down on the bed, grabbing a marker. Something felt off. Takanori wasn’t sure what, but Kouyou didn’t want him to know, so he’d just have to live with it. 

After a while Takanori heard him exit the bathroom. The game went quiet before Kouyou entered, bag slung over his shoulder and a small key in his hand. “Change of plans,” he said, meeting Takanori’s curious gaze. “I need to head out after all.”

“What’s up?” Takanori asked, watching Kouyou unlock the closet, rummaging around it as best he could with the door open just enough that Takanori couldn’t peek inside.

“I owe someone a favor.” He grabbed something, stuffing it into his bag in a manner he probably thought was discreet. That done, he hurriedly locked the closet up again, sending Takanori a reassuring smile. “It shouldn’t take too long, I’ll probably be back before midnight.”

“A favor?” The word was appropriately vague; it could mean anything. “You’re not involved in anything, are you?”

“No need to worry, Taka,” Kouyou said, which wasn’t really denial, and not nearly as calming as he probably thought it was. “See you later.”

Takanori quietly watched as Kouyou put on his boots and jacket, taking his scarf and leaving the apartment. Putting his marker down, he frowned down at his unfinished drawing. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised if Kouyou turned out to be involved in something shady — the guy was an underground porn star, that kind of shit pretty much came with the territory, he guessed.

But at least he was alone in the apartment again. Getting to his feet, Takanori went back into the living room, grabbing his laptop, intending to make the most of it. Midnight… it was only a bit past eight, leaving him with a comfortable amount of time on his hands. Plenty enough to take a good look at what Ishida had sent earlier. 

He had no intentions to watch anything of blind boy when Kouyou was around.

Over email, the two of them had come to an agreement: Takanori would send pictures or tell about the intimate sides of his relationship with Kouyou, and in return, Ishida would send a new video. Explaining to Ishida how he had somehow entered a friends-with-benefits-relationship was something Takanori should probably have had trouble stomaching; he knew that he was essentially creating material for Ishida to jack off to, but somehow he could distance himself from the situation.

It wasn’t like this would go on forever, anyway… Ishida only had so many things to show, and Takanori already had a fair few videos of his own.

He made himself comfortable on the bed, earphones on and sketchpad by his side as he allowed the new video to play. With the blinds pulled shut and the lights off, the room was dark; perfect for watching. Not so much for drawing, but it wouldn’t be the first time drawing in the dark after watching the videos. He saw blind boy there, his pale face and dark hair, wrists tightly tied over his head, the familiar blindfold covering his eyes as a thumb traced lips Takanori knew so well. A faceless stranger’s large hand slid down, molded itself perfectly around the pale throat, and squeezed.

There were scars on those fingers, long and jagged.

 

True to his word, Kouyou returned home a few hours later, before midnight. Takanori could hear the soft thud of the bag dropping to the ground, heard him shrugging his boots and jacket off. He sharpened his ears, listening closely. No showering tonight?

A moment later, the door opened, and Kouyou entered the bedroom, bag back on his shoulder. “I’m back.”

Takanori had long since put the laptop away, and now lay stretched out on the bed, using Kouyou’s handheld to pass the time. “I can see that,” he muttered, laying the console aside. “How’d that favor go?”

“It went fine,” Kouyou said, emptying his bag into the now unlocked closet. With his body blocking the view, Takanori could hardly see anything inside. “Glad to get it over with. I hate feeling like I’m indebted to someone.”

“Yeah, I get you. It was nothing dangerous, right?”

“Not at all.” Closet shut and locked, he began shrugging his jeans off, fully aware of Takanori’s staring.

“... well, I hope they were grateful. You did run right out the door.” 

Kouyou just chuckled, leaving his pants abandoned on the floor.

Takanori could only sigh and lie back against the pillows as Kouyou disappeared out the door. He had no idea what was really going on — it wasn’t really his business either — but it was still strange. Halfway in Kouyou’s world he’d been left waiting outside, unknowing. But by now, Takanori had gotten pretty good at being able to tell when his friend wasn’t telling the whole truth, if not outright lying. Kouyou seemed oblivious enough. He probably believed he had Takanori wrapped around his finger and believing every word.

A few minutes later and Kouyou reappeared wearing his oversized shirt, ready for bed. He opened the blinds and shut the lights off, before crawling under the sheets next to Takanori. The run downtown must’ve tired him out; usually he would sit up for a while, playing something, but now he curled up immediately. 

“Good night,” he murmured, and Takanori figured that was it, burying his face in Kouyou’s neck and closing his eyes, hoping to drift off to sleep — there were no new hickeys lining the skin, and Kouyou smelled like himself tonight, Takanori noted appreciatively. It wasn’t rare he would catch the whiff of a stranger’s cologne when Kouyou had been out and not yet gotten around to washing it off.

It was enough to make ugly feelings of jealousy bubble beneath his skin, but he knew he had no right to feel that way. Tonight, however, he could sleep soundly.

Or so he thought. 

He had been in pretty deep sleep, body wrapped in a blanket of comfort when the warm form he’d been pressing into began to move. Cracking an eye open, Takanori stared into nothingness, the room too dark to really see anything. “Kou?” he tried, reaching out to gently grasp Kouyou’s shoulder. His friend’s skin was uncomfortably hot, and he was stirring in his sleep, face turned away from him. 

Sitting up, Takanori shook him again, less gentle this time, pressing a hand against Kouyou’s flushed cheek. “Hey, Kou.” The movement stilled, and Kouyou’s eyes snapped open, wild gaze meeting Takanori’s before he squeezed them shut again.

“Bad dream?” Takanori asked cautiously.

His only reply was a soft hum, before Kouyou reached up, probably meaning to rub his eyes that were now wide open in the dark. He was shivering slightly. “Yeah,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Yeah.”

Kouyou was quick to move, pulling the blankets away before throwing a leg over Takanori’s lap to straddle him. Their eyes were adjusting to the dark, though neither of them needed to see to continue.

Resting his hands on Kouyou’s soft thighs, Takanori sighed deeply, feeling his friend pull at his clothes, diligently preparing them. He let his fingernails scrape down the long legs as Kouyou worked himself down the shaft, imagining the redness he was leaving on the pale skin. It wasn’t the first time they did this. It wasn’t the first time he had been allowed to put his hands on Kouyou, to mark him similarly to how the stranger would mark Kouyou’s neck, his shallow scratches left as proof, although they faded away by morning. Pressing fingers against the moving hips, he dared venture higher, sliding up the torso beneath the shirt, pointless as he knew it would be.

“No,” Kouyou moaned breathily, grabbing his wandering hands and pushing them down, because he still refused to let Takanori touch anywhere but below the waist. Takanori didn’t know why, but he wasn’t going to complain. It wasn’t that long ago he couldn’t touch anywhere at all, but slowly, Kouyou had started turning to him more and more. He would often have bad dreams as of late. Takanori didn’t know why, nor could he really pinpoint when they had started, but those nights would always end the same: with Kouyou taking comfort in his presence, fucking him until completion, before going back to sleep.

It was always the same.

The first time he’d freaked out, still unused to Kouyou acting so vulnerable, but he couldn’t get him to talk about the dreams — Takanori guessed the sex that followed served as a distraction, grounding him in reality and wearing him out, helping him back to sleep. Takanori hadn’t been able to sleep afterwards, the first time, brain going haywire with concern and confusion even as Kouyou curled up against him. 

Come morning, Kouyou would apologize, but say nothing else, carrying on like nothing had happened. Disappointing as it was, Takanori was entirely unsurprised. Kouyou keeping quiet about things that were probably important was pretty much par for the course, but he didn’t want to make him clam up again, so he didn’t ask.

Not that Takanori expected he ever would say anything. He wasn’t going to tell where the videos came from, what happened to his eyes, why he had a partially burned photo of himself lying in a box of mementos. He wasn’t going to tell why he refused to take his shirt off, or who regularly branded his neck with hickeys.

Takanori wondered if, whoever they were, they knew about him. If they knew that Kouyou would turn to him during restless nights, that they would spend slow days together in bed just for the hell of it. He wondered what they’d do if Takanori was the one to leave marks deep in Kouyou’s skin, if he allowed himself to sink his long nails deeply into Kouyou’s soft thighs as he could feel climax approaching, gripping hard and leaving scratches down the curve of his ass… 

Kouyou’s protest came half-hearted and too late; already he’d left shallow, uneven cuts down his thigh, deep enough to draw blood, but in that moment he didn’t care — all Takanori could feel was his own release, Kouyou hot and heavy above and around him, and what he really wanted to do was reach up, grab Kouyou by the collar of his shirt, before pulling him down to kiss him, hard.

But Takanori didn’t. The moment passed, and he fell against the mattress, limp with exhaustion as Kouyou slipped off of him, silently sitting at the edge of the bed as they caught their breath.

And then he got up. Takanori watched unseeing as Kouyou left the bedroom, saw the lights turn on as Kouyou rummaged around in the kitchen. The clear sound of a clinking glass, of liquid, then silence.

Rubbing his fingertips together, Takanori could feel it, the broken skin, the blood he’d drawn. His nails had grown longer, sharper than he’d thought. The heavy twisting in his gut told him that he’d just done something very, very wrong.

Slowly he stood up. Fixing his pants, he entered the living room. Kouyou stood leaned against a counter, the glass in his hand half drained of a clear liquid Takanori sincerely hoped was water, but seeing the bottle of sake by the sink, he knew better.

“What’s wrong?” Takanori asked, watching Kouyou continue to thoughtfully stare off into space, tapping a finger against the glass, before downing the second half of its contents.

“Nothing,” he said, and it was clearly bullshit, but the soft smile he offered Takanori was still a small comfort, even if it didn’t reach his eyes and only lasted a moment, fingers tracing the bloody scratches on his thigh. Takanori had the feeling that he’d broken some unspoken rule between them. A rule that had once been look but don’t touch, one that had at some point become touch but don’t leave a mark.

Something wet was slowly running down Kouyou’s inner thigh. It was hard to look away. “I’m sorry,” Takanori said, his voice quiet, but it was still the loudest thing in the room, and Kouyou only sighed, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kouyou murmured. “Let’s just go back to bed.” He grabbed the bottle, leading Takanori back into the bedroom, leaving the door halfway open and allowing gentle light to spill in. He looked distant as he lay back down, propped against the pillows, the open bottle in his hand.

Takanori could smell the sex in the room, now. He lay down, watching Kouyou gulping sake directly from the bottle, staring emptily at the open doorway, not looking away even as Takanori moved, even when he pressed his lips against Kouyou’s inner thigh. 

It was only when he felt a warm tongue lapping up the come trickling down his leg that Kouyou looked down, expression puzzled. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you,” Takanori said, and it was— no, it _should_ have been disgusting, licking his own come from Kouyou’s skin, but somehow it wasn’t.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Kouyou didn’t protest, didn’t do anything to stop him, merely watched as Takanori slowly licked his leg clean, leaving small kisses on the skin because he didn’t know if he would dare to kiss Kouyou’s lips ever again, and besides, he loved legs, and he loved Kouyou’s legs — they were perfect, long and smooth and shapely and god, he loved Kouyou — he was an asshole and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself.

He wanted to suck on that beautiful skin, he wanted to leave his own marks, to dot it with his own hickeys all along Kouyou’s inner thighs, just like a stranger did to Kouyou’s neck, but instead he rested his cheek against the soft skin because he didn’t dare to do that, either.

He could feel the muscles moving beneath the skin, flexing, then relaxing. Kouyou’s hand was in his hair, fingers gently combing the blond strands. His breath was deep and even. “If you really want to, just do it,” he said.

Neither of them got much sleep that night, but when Takanori woke up the next morning, the room was bright with sunlight, and a bruise was blooming on Kouyou’s inner thigh.


	24. Chapter 24

The sketchpad was full.

Flipping through the many pages, Kouyou’s blindfolded face stared back at him, not a blank page left. Not a single one. Takanori was proud; it felt like a great accomplishment, filling an entire book with drawings — he’d even gone back and fleshed out most of the sketches, pouring time and effort into them. The videos Ishida had slowly been sending were truly fueling Takanori’s creativity, and since Kouyou spent so much time away, he got plenty chances to draw. But with no pages, he couldn’t draw anything new, and there was no way he’d risk putting blind boy anywhere else but in a book he could easily hide away from Kouyou’s prying eyes.

Which was exactly why he got up pretty early, all things considered, and headed downtown to shop. He returned from the small art supply store swinging a bag filled with new paints, markers — and a sketchpad. Takanori was excited as he made his way up the stairs to Kouyou’s apartment, but just as he was about to step inside, he paused at the sound of Kouyou’s voice, clear and unobstructed. 

He was on the phone again. And by the sounds of it, it was nothing good.

“—look, we already know he’s in the city, all you need to do is find out where. How hard can it be?” He was pacing, back turned to Takanori. “It’s been over a _year_. My patience is really wearing thin.” There was a tense pause. “Then what the hell am I paying you for?!”

Takanori remained eerily still, leaning against the door frame, bag clutched in his hand. There was an uncharacteristically vile curse as Kouyou hung up, turning to give the kitchen counter a sharp kick. “Ow, shit.” Halfway through the door, Takanori was keenly aware of Kouyou’s eyes turning on him. 

Well, fuck. 

“What— Taka, you’re home!”

“... yeah, I’m home,” Takanori said awkwardly. Kouyou still had the phone in his hand, but was quick to shove it into his pocket, seeing Takanori’s drifting eyes. “Who were you talking to?”

Shrugging, Kouyou turned his back to Takanori, pushing open the fridge to grab a beer and avoid looking Takanori in the eye. “Nobody important.”

“Oh yeah?” Dumping the art supplies on the sofa, he couldn’t help the frown that crept across his face. “That didn’t sound like nobody to me.” 

Kouyou just sighed, the drink forgotten in his hand, expression wistful when he turned to face Takanori again. “You overheard, huh?”

“Sorry, but yeah,” Takanori said, shrugging his shoes and jacket off. “That sounded an awful lot like you’re involved with something.”

“Look, I… you don’t need to worry about it.”

“Don’t say that shit, Kou,” Takanori snapped. “Just, don’t. Of course I fucking worry for you, you sneak off every other day and now you — you’re _paying_ people to find someone? You didn’t _tell_ me about any of this shit, and now I have to find out like this, yet you expect me not to worry?”

Kouyou was biting his lip, settling to look somewhere to his left, away from Takanori. “It was just…”

“No, don’t you dare.” His voice was firm, and he was up in Kouyou’s face, forcing his attention. “Don’t you _dare_ try talking your way out of this one, Kouyou. Just tell me.”

“I…” Kouyou sighed. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he said, lifting the can to his lips. _No shit_ , Takanori thought, backing off and watching Kouyou slowly sip his beer. “Taka, do you remember what I told you about Keisuke?”

“What?”

“My dog. Back when Midori was here, it was the anniversary of his death.”

Of course he remembered. It was hard to forget that day, especially considering what happened the following morning. Takanori knew. He had tried to forget. 

“Yeah, I remember. Someone killed him, right? She thought you were gonna off yourself…” Takanori trailed off. It was hard to bring up their fight, even after so long. “And… I came over when you were drunk. I was worried. You told me the reason you drank so much… someone called you.” He paused. “These are the same people?”

“I’m looking for him,” Kouyou said, looking away. “The guy who killed Keisuke. There’s more to it, he didn’t just… he didn’t just kill him.” Another sip of the beer, longer this time; he closed his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “He stole him. And… he cut Keisuke up, killed him slowly. Filmed the whole thing, sold the footage, made a profit off of his suffering…” Kouyou tightened his jaw, and when he opened his eyes again, the fury was evident in them. “ _That_ is who I’m searching for. I have contacts in the city, trying to find him.”

“... that’s fucked up,” Takanori said after a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know about this, Kou. This all seems really… shady, if you ask me. Did you ever consider going to the police? That’s kind of what they’re for, isn’t it?”

“The police?” Kouyou almost laughed. “Police are useless, they can’t find people for shit. No.” He slammed the beer can down on the counter. “I will be the one to find him, and he’ll get what he fucking _deserves_ , trust me.”

Takanori’s lips were tightly shut, unsure what to say, seeing Kouyou practically fume with rage and determination. He was craving a cigarette something awful. “Why,” he tried, “why couldn’t you just— tell me? This clearly means a lot to you.”

The smile he got in return was awkward, almost a grimace. “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

“You’re right,” Takanori said. “I don’t. But you’re still a fucking idiot keeping something this big a secret from me for so long.”

“Sorry about that.”

Grunting, Takanori leaned heavily against the counter. “Whoever this guy is, if he can take and torture a dog like he did… well, he’s probably going to be dangerous,” he began. “If you find him—”

“I will.”

“ _When_ you find him, don’t underestimate him, alright? I will never forgive you if you get yourself hurt.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Taka,” Kouyou chuckled. As if sensing Takanori’s need, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, held between his fingers as he leaned against the counter. “It won’t be anytime soon, anyway. All I know is that he’s somewhere in Tokyo… they’re all too incompetent to track him down.”

That was a small blessing, Takanori could only think, watching Kouyou place the cigarette between his lips, moving to lit it. “So…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. “What are you going to do to him? When you get your hands on him, I mean.”

Kouyou’s grin was wide, glowing cigarette trapped between his teeth. “He is going to _burn_.”

 

Keisuke had been a beautiful dog. His fur was long and soft, a dark shade of brown, his eyes big and friendly. The thought of seeing him like that — a beloved pet, a part of Kouyou’s life since early teens at least, laid out and dismembered for the entertainment of sick fucks — was horrifying. Takanori could only imagine how it must have felt to find out, to have seen it with his own eyes… 

The photo’s surface was glossy, but not perfectly smooth, wrinkled in places like it had been kept folded. At least it hadn’t been burned, Takanori mused, lifting the second picture from the wooden box. The ashy remains of a younger Kouyou’s lower half easily scraped away with a rub of his thumb, small bits of black dust softly falling to the floor.

He had the new sketchbook open in his lap, blind boy’s face tilted up towards a ceiling that Takanori had yet to draw. Side by side, they barely looked the same at all — Kouyou, younger, freer, grinning in a football field, while blind boy sat blindfolded and submissive, mouth open in a moan as a heavy hand curled around his throat. But it was clearly the same face, the same person…

Akira looked just as carefree in the picture. Setting the box back in the nightstand, Takanori found himself wondering; what did Akira think of Kouyou’s life choices? No way would he dare to ask, of course. Takanori had a feeling that particular revelation would do more harm than good, probably by way of Akira’s fists. The guy looked like he could pack a punch, should the situation present itself, and he definitely had the muscle to prove it. Sure they were friends, but Akira had known Kouyou for much longer, had been with him through football and short-lived high school bands… and possibly through a rough relationship, so Takanori had a good guess whose side he would stick to should it come to that.

Takanori did not want to find himself on the receiving end of Akira’s hypothetical rage. And worst case scenario — assuming the two of them were still talking, it would lead to Kouyou knowing the truth.

He’d be in deep shit then.

At the sound of the front door, Takanori stilled; immediately he snapped the book shut, getting to his feet to put it away as quick as possible. His laptop still sat on the bed, closed as he had long since stopped watching for the day. Putting it away, he left the bedroom, finding Kouyou by the door, unwrapping the scarf from his neck.

Flakes of melting snow clung to his hair as he removed his sunglasses, looking up to greet Takanori. “Hey.”

“Welcome back,” Takanori said. “How’s the manhunt going?”

“Stop calling it that.” Kouyou rolled his eyes. “I don’t spend every waking moment searching, you know. Nothing has changed just because I told you what’s going on. Sometimes I just go out.”

“Out, yeah. With friends that help you hunt dog killers for pay?”

“ _Takanori_.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah, whatever,” he shrugged. “I’m gonna change.” Grabbing a large bag from behind his feet, Kouyou moved to the bedroom; Takanori stayed, watching small bits of snow disappear from Kouyou’s jacket in the warm air, listening to the telltale sound of a lock clicking shut as Kouyou deposited stuff in the closet.

It didn’t take long before Kouyou returned, heavy clothes swapped for considerably softer ones. There was the noise of a beer can opening, and Takanori looked up from where he was halfheartedly sketching the entrance — locked door, coat rack, the unsorted mess of boots and shoes because his flatmate didn’t bother to put things away properly — to see Kouyou draping his long body on the sofa, sunglasses on as he reached for the controller.

Even with the sunglasses, there was a thoughtful expression to his features as he waited for his game to start up, Takanori noted, laying his sketchbook aside. Outside, it was starting to grow dark. 

“Move over,” Takanori said, dropping his art supplies to the coffee table. Kouyou obliged, giving room on the couch so Takanori could sit down, his grip firm on the controller as his game loaded in. A racing game. How dull. Grabbing Kouyou’s legs, Takanori lifted them up to his lap, lazily running hands down the soft fabric of leggings, watching on with disinterest as Kouyou’s car raced ahead.

It didn’t come as a surprise that he was good at it. “Hey Kou, you know how to drive?”

“No? Why?”

“Just wondering if you ever got your license.”

Kouyou chuckled, eyes fixed intently on the car. “The only thing I can legally drive is a bicycle.”

“So I guess that’s a no to us stealing a car and going for a road trip, then,” Takanori said. “Did you go shopping?” he asked after a while of watching the game, mostly just to make conversation. It took Kouyou a moment to register the question, breaking his concentration, but even so his driving didn’t waver, car perfectly making it around a sharp corner. 

“Nope.”

“Maybe you should soon, then.” Not that they were running out of food more than usual — they preferred takeout over cooking any day, anyway. “Aren’t you running low on drinks? I thought I only saw the one pack of beer this morning… knowing you it’ll probably be gone by the time we go to bed.”

Kouyou snorted, corners of his lips twitching upwards for a brief moment. “Damn, I guess you have a point.”

Takanori tore his eyes from the speeding car. Kouyou’s skin was warm and smooth beneath his hands as he rolled up the pant leg. “Are you really that bored?” Kouyou said, amused, as Takanori leaned down to press lips against the naked shin. When the only answer he got was a content hum, Kouyou chuckled, exiting the screen proclaiming he had won the race.

“I’ve been drawing for ages,” Takanori drawled, cheek pressed against bare skin. Kouyou smelled good tonight, no scent of booze or a stranger’s cologne on him. “I got nothing to do. Your games are boring. Where were you all day?”

“Out,” was the short reply. “What about that fighting game we played once? You liked that one, I could tell.”

“Those are only fun when you’re playing with someone else.” He sighed. “Out, out, out… you’re always _out_ , Kou.”

“Well, maybe you spend too much time cooped up here, ever consider that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Takanori said, but Kouyou just shook his head, his focus back on the racing car. He tapped his hand against Kouyou’s leg to get his attention. “Hey, what are you thinking about?”

“Wait.” Pausing the game, Kouyou stilled. “My phone’s ringing.”

“What? Oh.” With the noisy video game he hadn’t even noticed, but now that Kouyou mentioned it, he could hear that faint buzzing noise of a muted phone, annoyingly vibrating somewhere behind them. Getting to his feet, Takanori quickly went through Kouyou’s jacket, producing the phone from a pocket. With a quick glance to the lit screen he found a familiar name, and something cold ran through his veins. _Kai_. “Whoever’s calling sure seems eager to talk to you.”

Kouyou was quick to take the outstretched phone, and Takanori didn’t miss the sharp look that coloured his features for a brief moment when he realized who was trying to reach him. “Well, sucks for them,” he muttered, declining the call. Curling up on his side of the sofa, he started typing in a message. 

“Not a friend of yours?”

Kouyou chuckled mirthlessly. “Not someone I like having to deal with.”

Message sent, he slung the phone onto the table, grabbing the controller and returning to his game, good humor wiped from his face. _You don’t like dealing with him, but you sure like letting him fuck you…_ clearing his throat, Takanori sat back down. “So it’s another one of your hunters-for-hire?”

“Nah, just some asshole.”

The word slipped out before he could really think about what he was saying. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“What?” That got Kouyou’s eyes on him quick, on-screen car driving blindly for a few seconds. “No! Why would you think that?”

A shrug. “Your ex was an asshole, and this guy is too? It was a good guess, if you ask me.”

“I’ve met a lot of assholes in my time, Taka. Don’t make me list you among them.”

“Sorry,” Takanori apologized, though he was mildly amused. “But I am curious about that ex of yours…”

“Just leave it,” Kouyou cut him off. “I get you want to know, but it was a long time ago—” interrupted by a loud buzzing sound, he flinched as the phone began to vibrate on the table. The screen was once again flashing. _Kai_.

“Again?” Takanori said, puzzled. “Didn’t he get the message?”

“Apparently not,” Kouyou muttered. Pausing the game, he grabbed the phone, standing up. He disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later Takanori could make out his voice, muffled through the door. Softly Takanori walked closer, ears sharp as he attempted to listen in, and the words were hard to make out, but the vicious tone was clear when Kouyou raised his voice, saying, “You are _not supposed to call me_.”

Frowning, Takanori moved away from the door. He didn’t know what business Kouyou had with this guy, but Kouyou was usually pretty friendly, so if it was enough to visibly piss him off this much, it had to be pretty bad. And if it was Kai — the same guy who kept inviting him over, the one who kept messaging him saying _I want you, I need you…_

He didn’t need to think very hard to imagine what he wanted from Kouyou.

Bitter, Takanori retreated to the bedroom. The room was dark, blinds shut from when he’d been watching videos earlier, preferring to do so in complete darkness and solitude. All the thoughts were swimming around in his head… and despite how uneventful as the day had been, he felt weirdly tired. Was it too early to sleep yet?

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to picture the stranger. Kai. What did he look like? Was he larger than Kouyou, taller, muscular, easily able to overpower him, able to pin him down, bend him whichever way he wanted… enough to break him, if he were too rough, if he underestimated his own strength? 

Maybe not. Kouyou didn’t seem the type to go for someone like that. Maybe he was… around the same height, perhaps shorter — Kouyou’s height was nothing to scoff at, after all — but Kai would be broader, stronger. Physically powerful, but not to the point it was really noticeable beneath his clothes. It was hard to imagine the man; Takanori had nothing to go on, not even a faint idea of what Kai could possibly look like, and yet the picture he drew in his mind was… so _normal_. Average height. Strong, yes, but not obviously so. Regular, uninteresting, _boring_. Nothing like Kouyou, who drew the eye no matter what, Kouyou who was tall and slender, with golden hair and eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

And no matter how Takanori tried, he just couldn’t think of what Kai’s face possibly looked like. His mind drew a blank.

“Are you awake?”

At the sound of Kouyou’s voice, Takanori cracked his eyes open. “Hey,” he said, voice cracking slightly from disuse. Had he fallen asleep? He hadn’t noticed. “What’s up?” 

There was a certain look to Kouyou’s face, a displeased set to his lips. “Don’t close the blinds,” he said, moving to open them. “It gets too dark.”

“What, you need a nightlight?” Stretching, Takanori had to stifle a yawn. “You shouldave… should’ve gotten a dimmer here too, then.” 

Kouyou hummed, gazing silently out in the darkness, city lights blinking against his naked eyes. “The landlord found out.”

“What?”

“About the dimmers. He was here a few days ago.”

“Shit,” Takanori said, sitting up. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, but he contacted my mother.” Kouyou sighed, laying down in the vacant spot next to Takanori, pulling the covers over them. “She’s coming over tomorrow… is there anywhere you can stay for a few days?”

Biting his lip, Takanori looked away, thinking. There was Akira’s, and tomorrow was a Friday, but… they’d hung out last week already, so he wasn’t sure how welcome he would be. “I think so,” Takanori said anyway, and Kouyou's lids fell shut.

“Good.”

Takanori remained quiet, lying there in the dark, just listening to Kouyou breathing next to him. His eyes were fixed on the window, on the glittering lights of the world outside the open blinds.


	25. Chapter 25

It was nearly noon by the time Takanori dragged himself out of bed. It was made easier by the fact that the spot next to him was empty, Kouyou long since having slinked out of his embrace; most mornings Takanori was the first to wake, Kouyou preferring to bury his face into warm sheets and sleep for a while longer before finally getting up.

Takanori found him in the kitchen, crouched on the floor before the open fridge. He had yet to get dressed, and the smell of fresh tea was strong in the room. “Morning,” Kouyou greeted. It took Takanori a moment to realize what he was doing. “Slept well?”

“Slept fine,” Takanori replied, watching Kouyou grab cans of beer from the fridge, placing them on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“If my mom sees my stash, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Kouyou said simply, closing the fridge door as he stood up. There weren’t that many drinks left compared to how much he usually had, only a few cans of beer and the bottle of sake Takanori had given him, still nearly full. He must have known this was coming for a while; most days, Kouyou kept his fridge very well supplied, nearly to the point that they could barely fit actual food.

“Right,” Takanori said, moving to grab a cup of the morning tea. “How long till she comes?”

“A few hours. I need you to hide all your things, by the way. If she sees them she’ll start asking questions.”

“So she doesn’t know about me, huh?”

“Nobody does,” Kouyou said. “No one is supposed to be living here except for me, and we’ll both be in trouble if she finds out. So we’re gonna hide your stuff.”

“Well, this is weird,” Takanori said after a moment, letting the warm tea soothe his throat. “Kinda starting to feel like I don’t officially exist.”

Kouyou just chuckled.

The next hour or so was spent cleaning up the apartment, getting Takanori’s belongings out of sight and hidden away safely behind the locked doors of the closet, a change of clothes and necessities left in a bag for later. With that done, they settled on the sofa, lazily draped over one another.

 _Want to hang out today?_ Takanori texted, fiddling with his phone as he waited for Akira’s reply. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Akira declined — they rarely, if ever, met up two weeks in a row, but when his phone buzzed a few minutes later the message read _Sure_ , and Takanori smirked victoriously, putting the phone away. 

“Good news?”

“I have somewhere to stay,” Takanori said, settling more comfortably between Kouyou’s open legs.

“Good. Take the drinks with you when you go,” Kouyou drawled, gesturing towards the bag of beer on the kitchen counter. “Your friend’ll probably appreciate it a lot more than my mom.”

Takanori nodded, though he wasn’t certain it was a great idea — there was more than one reason why Takanori always ended up drinking watery swill at Akira’s place, and knowing his and Akira’s alcohol tolerance, they would probably get wasted on Kouyou’s booze pretty quickly. Kouyou didn’t go for the cheap stuff.

The sole bottle was conspicuously left out from the bag, however. “You’re keeping the sake?”

“I’m not going to completely deprive myself. Besides, it was a gift,” Kouyou said, eyes drifting shut as Takanori rested his head on his chest. “She’ll understand.”

Takanori’s fingers were lazily drawing circles on the bare skin, nails trailing the scratches he’d left on Kouyou’s thighs. There was a vivid bruise there, warm and red and as large as his mouth, though he couldn’t see it from where he was lying. 

It had felt good, leaving his own marks on Kouyou’s skin, branding him the same way Kai — the stranger — did to his neck.

Beneath him, Kouyou was starting to fall asleep, and so Takanori pressed lips to a pale throat. “Hey, Kou, stay awake,” he murmured. “You know, it might be a while until next time. Wanna fuck before I go?”

Kouyou’s dark eyes were on him, lids heavy, lips softly curved upward. “Sure.”

They left the apartment together, Kouyou staying at the station to wait for his mother to arrive as Takanori boarded the train. He watched through the large windows as Kouyou rested his long frame against a wall before the train moved and he disappeared out of sight. Bag of pricy beer secured, Takanori didn’t need to go shopping, but he still had to head downtown to find a movie to watch. Last week had been Akira’s turn to pick; Takanori had no plans to let him influence the choice this time, lest they end up watching trash two weeks in a row. He already had his mind on one particular movie.

Akira wasn’t gonna be ecstatic about the choice of film, but he would shut up once they got watching.

Killing time, Takanori loitered around in the rental for a while yet, before making his way down the shopping street, staring longingly at the latest fashion that he knew he couldn’t afford. There was no real point to stop at the coffee place, since Akira wasn’t working weekdays, but he did it anyway, the thought of a caffeine boost too tempting to pass up.

While Akira’s shop had nothing on Kato’s, the coffee was still pretty good, and with the bag of booze and rented movie in one hand, red styrofoam cup in the other, he finally headed to Akira’s place.

 

“Horror?” Akira muttered, reading over the back of the movie Takanori had brought. “I thought you were gonna pick another thriller.”

Takanori shrugged, setting the beer down on Akira’s counter. “It looked interesting,” he said. “I think after that shit you picked last week, I deserve to chose something that actually looks, you know, intriguing.”

“Fair enough.” Tossing the movie down on the sofa, Akira joined him, eyes darting suspiciously between the beer and Takanori. “Your parents send you money or something?”

“I wish.”

“This is some nice stuff,” Akira said, looking over the drinks. “Huh, what do you know. Maybe we’ll even get drunk this time.”

“Wouldn’t that be a pleasant change.”

“Does kind of break a tradition, don’t you think?” Akira mused. “You know. All these movies we’ve watched, and we’ve never gotten more than a good buzz going.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing we usually just drink piss,” Takanori laughed. “A ‘thank you’ will do nicely next time, Aki.”

“Since when do you call me…” trailing off, Akira cleared his throat. “Hey, remember that time you ran off with… was it gin? We got so wasted that night,” he chuckled, turning over an unopened can in his hands. “Did you steal this from your folks too?”

“Nah.” Takanori shrugged. “I haven’t been home since I got kicked out.”

“Just took it from someone else, then?”

“What?” He paused. “How do you figure I didn’t just buy it?”

“You don’t have a job anymore, Takanori,” Akira interrupted. “You don’t have the cash. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be spending it on drinks. There _is_ a reason why we’ve been drinking cheap shit all this time, and it’s got to do with more than just us being dirt poor.”

Takanori fell silent. Akira’s eyes were unblinking, his usual smile frozen into something almost unrecognizable, the single can of beer clutched tightly in his hand. “You took it off your roommate’s hands, right?”

“... only because he told me to,” Takanori said quietly. “He thought it would be a nice gesture or something, me bringing something good over for once—”

Akira sighed loudly, and Takanori shut up. Setting the beer down on the counter, Akira crossed his arms. “Takanori, do you think I’m stupid?”

“Of course not,” Takanori said, taking a careful step back. He had an awful feeling he knew where this was going. “What makes you think that?”

“How long?”

“What?”

“For how long,” Akira said slowly, his expression tightening into something that looked almost like anger. “How long have you known Kouyou?”

He could practically feel the colour draining from his face. Shit. How did Akira find out? Did he know what Takanori and Kouyou were? “... a while,” was the only thing he could manage to make out, watching Akira’s arms flex dangerously in warning.

“Don’t mess with me, Takanori,” Akira grunted. “Give it to me straight. When’d you meet him? How?”

“... about half a year ago.” Letting go of his earring, Takanori leaned against the counter to keep a calm facade, fully aware of the dark look in Akira’s eyes. “Uh, he used to walk past the store pretty often and I just ran into him one day and we started talking, really.”

“And now you _live_ with him.”

“Well, a lot happened in that half year.”

“Yeah?” Akira wasn’t wavering. “Like what?”

“We got to know each other,” Takanori said. “He convinced me to dye my hair. The reason I’m staying at his place is because he offered it after I got kicked out…”

That had been the wrong thing to say. “So you’re _guilting_ him into—”

“No!” Takanori exclaimed, raising his hands. “I told you he _offered_! Shit, what’s up with you? Why are you acting like I’m fucking—”

“I’m not blind, Matsumoto.” Akira was getting uncomfortably close, posture tight and threatening. “Shima tells me he’s cancelling on me just as you ask to come over, and then you’re showing up with his booze? The evidence really speaks for itself.”

Cancelling? Were they planning to meet up before Kouyou’s mother came over? Takanori shook his head. “Fair enough.” His instincts were screaming at him to back away further, but he held his ground, eyes locked on Akira’s. “That doesn’t explain why you’re behaving hellishly overprotective,” he said. “You’re not his fucking dad, Kouyou’s not— he can take care of himself, ‘kira.”

“You are not in any position to be telling me anything,” Akira growled, and Takanori found himself getting pushed further into the counter, backside pressed into the sharp corner. “What is it you want from him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Takanori replied, though he couldn’t help but glance away for a moment, “his friendship?” The sarcasm in his voice fell flat. Because really, what _did_ he want from Kouyou that he didn’t already have— his kindness, his body, his secrets?

The truth, of course. That, and something more, something that was more than Takanori would ever deserve, but the thought was snuffled out when Akira’s fingers were suddenly grasping his shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

“You say that,” Akira began, voice low and threatening as Takanori uselessly tried to pry the hand away. “You say that, but for how long have you been fucking him?”

Takanori froze as the words registered in his brain. Akira snarled at the wide-eyed silence, the obvious confirmation of his suspicions, and he roughly shoved Takanori against the counter. “I swear, Matsumoto, if you ever hurt him—”

“—you’ll kill me?” Takanori finished, pushing Akira away, getting a growl in response. “Fuck’s sake, Suzuki, calm down, will you? He’s my friend too!”

“And I thought you were _my_ friend, _Taka_ , but here we are!” Akira all but yelled. “I trust you alone in my place for a day because you don’t want to deal with your dad, and what do you do, go through my private things, don’t say a word about it, and you _knew_ he was my friend. You knew. And you didn’t tell me you were his fucking _boyfriend_.”

“His what?” Takanori paused. ”Wait, hold up,” he said, pushing Akira away again, watching the anger in his expression be replaced by an irritated impatience. “You’re freaking out on me because— because you think I’m his—”

“Aren’t you?”

“No!” Takanori exclaimed. “He’s just a friend!”

“Just a friend that you fuck occasionally.”

Takanori grunted in frustration, crossing his arms. “I’ll have you know he’s the one who started that whole mess, not me,” he muttered. “He wouldn’t want a boyfriend, anyway… he was very clear about that.”

“But you want him to, don’t you?” Akira said, and Takanori bit his lip, looking away. It was hard to answer. He wasn’t sure himself, really — he couldn’t deny that he wanted more, but… he didn’t really know what. When there was no answer, Akira nodded, understanding, and the rage ebbed out of his frame. “I see.”

“‘kira,” Takanori tried, “when it comes to Kouyou. Do you not trust me?”

“I don’t think I trust anyone with Shima,” Akira said. His eyes were fixed on the floor. “Not like that, anyway.”

“Is it because of his ex?”

“Hm.” Akira was silent for a while. “Hey, did he ever tell you about him?” 

“Just that he was an asshole.”

“Well, he was.”

“And that’s all anyone’s ever told me about him. Look, I don’t know who the guy is or what he did, ‘kira,” Takanori said. “But I’m not going to be like that. You know that, right? I’m not going to… do whatever he did. Not to Kou. Not to anyone.”

“You’re going to regret it if you do.”

“Because you’ll kill me?”

“No,” Akira said. “But you’re going to wish that I had.”

“That’s comforting,” Takanori muttered. “I feel so secure around you, knowing that. Are you not gonna demand I put an end to the whole…” trailing off, he made a vague gesture; talking about this with Akira was weirdly awkward. “You know. With Kouyou?”

“No.” Akira shook his head. “I would love to punch your face in, and I would love to tell you to stay the hell away from him, but Kouyou does what he wants. I can’t do anything about his choices, even if I disapprove of them… but I guess it means that he trusts you.”

“Oh?”

“What he wants— _needs_ , is a friend. Someone he can trust, be around, be with. He… he doesn’t let people in if he loses that faith in them. So take care of him, will you?”

Trust. The word held a heavy weight, Takanori knew. He looked away, thinking back; he could remember Midori, what she had said, what she claimed to have been to Kouyou, before. A friend… she, too, had been kept in the dark, and then shut off completely once she figured out what secrets Kouyou were hiding.

He wondered if it would even be worth it to know the whole truth. Hell, Takanori already knew too much. But Akira was waiting for an answer, so he nodded. “Of course.”

“I wish I could keep him safe, you know,” Akira said. “But he won’t let me. So you’ll have to be the one to do it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You need to promise me this. Keep me updated, tell me how he’s doing, if anything happens… if… Kouyou doesn’t tell me things anymore, Taka. He doesn’t let me in, and when we talk, he’s not honest.” 

Figures Akira would know the truth. Or at least enough to leave him out, too… but they still hung out, didn’t they? Maybe Kouyou valued their friendship too much to throw it away. They had to have known each other for a long time, after all.

“But you know something’s up,” Takanori tried. “You’re not worried over nothing. Something is going on.”

“All I know is that he’s in over his head,” Akira said. “He’s looking for someone.”

“Oh, yeah, he told me. The guy who killed his dog, right?” Takanori made a face. “Must be a fucking psycho, doing something like that…”

“What? Keisuke?” Akira looked puzzled, an unreadable look in his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense, why would he… Kouyou’s dog ran away. It was hit by a car.”

Takanori fell silent; something cold and angry was biting at him at the realization, because of course Kouyou would lie. 

He fucking lied again.


	26. Chapter 26

The movie wasn’t very good.

Well, that wasn’t really fair. It might have been good, but Takanori didn’t really pay it as much attention as he should have, what with it being his own choice and all. He kept thinking about it, about his and Akira’s conversation, about Kouyou. He had lied, but was it wise to confront him about it? Would Kouyou leave him out in the cold once he realized Takanori knew more than he let on?

He didn’t want to end up like Midori. He needed Kouyou too much to bear the thought of being cut off, to lose what they had, even as fucked up as it was. Finding out what was really going on probably wouldn’t be worth it, and it wasn’t like Kouyou was likely to tell him anyway. Not even Akira would be out with it. He, too, knew what would happen, should Takanori know the truth, and he wouldn’t risk tearing them apart. It was for Kouyou’s sake, of course, so he said. 

The weekend spent at Akira’s place went by slowly. Takanori wasn’t allowed to stay back while he went off to work — not after last time. With so many hours to waste and so little to do, Takanori almost found himself walking back to his parents' apartment. Maybe it was just out of habit, especially since he couldn’t go to Kouyou for a while, but he was already halfway to the train station when he realized just what he was doing. Pulling himself together, Takanori turned around, heading to Kato’s instead.

He was greeted with a friendly smile and welcoming words, and while Kouyou wasn’t present, he was not surprised to see the dark man in the corner, occupying Takanori’s seat again, moping silently as he usually did. At least he had his own coffee this time, Takanori noted as he ordered himself something to eat. 

Cake counted as lunch, right?

He put off eating it for a while, watching the sulking man finish up and leave, before digging in; after it was gone, he stayed at Kato’s for a long time, drawing whatever came to mind. The day went by slowly. Kouyou didn’t text him anything and he had nothing to do but shop, pretending the reason he refrained from buying anything was a lack of interest, rather than income. His money was starting to run out.

By Sunday, Takanori was growing impatient. Staying with Akira for so long was awkward. That, and he had lost the rights to sleep in a proper bed, which was probably Akira’s not-so-subtle way of punishing him for keeping his mouth shut for so long. That, and he was probably slightly grossed out at the newfound knowledge regarding his friends, but as a result, Takanori resigned to sleep on the sofa, and now his back was starting to hurt.

So the message from Kouyou saying the bothersome mother had left the building was practically a godsend. He was quick to pack his meager stuff and go, but not without a reminder from Akira — _remember what I asked of you._ It was a simple request, really. Should anything happen to Kouyou, tell Akira about it. Just too bad Takanori wouldn’t get anything out of it on his end.

But then again, friendship was its own reward, he supposed.

The apartment was clean. It was already looking decent when Takanori left, but now it was actually _clean_ , and the smell of lemon-scented soap hanging in the air. That, and something significantly more edible, delicious, even.

Taking a peek inside the fridge, his suspicions were correct. The ultimate proof that Kouyou’s mother had spent some time over — homemade meals neatly packed away into the fridge to keep Kouyou healthy and well-fed for a few days. 

Or alternatively, Takanori. Getting out a box, he cracked it open; since Akira didn’t really feed either of them particularly well, he’d gone hungry for a while, and this was certainly a welcoming sight.

Taking a seat on the sofa, Takanori turned the TV on. The news were on, the current story featuring a police officer going on about closing a case because it had gone cold. Nothing new there. The world was shit and cops couldn’t do their job properly. Kouyou had a point regarding that, he supposed, changing the channel and finding something more interesting to watch, even if it was just a rerun of a show he wasn’t particularly familiar with.

He had just finished eating when the bedroom door creaked open revealing Kouyou, fully dressed and disheveled, like he’d gone to bed without taking his clothes off. Takanori raised a hand in greeting, taking a moment to mute the TV. It was strange to see him again, knowing — but then again, nothing had really changed. Kouyou still lied, Takanori still knew too much.

“Hey,” he said, scooting over so Kouyou could take a seat next to him. “It’s kinda early for a nap, you know.”

Kouyou sighed, practically melting into the seat. Leaning against Takanori, he closed his eyes. “Don’t care. I’m tired, I just want to sleep.”

“Me too, really. I’ve been sleeping on the couch all weekend,” Takanori said. Kouyou sighed again, laying down, his head in Takanori’s lap, curling up like an oversized cat. “Your mom, is she really that bad?”

“She’s… fussy.”

“Maybe, but she’s done a pretty good job cleaning up the place. Not to mention her cooking’s great.” He gestured to the now empty box of food. “More than makes up for it, in my opinion.”

“To the victor go the spoils,” came the reply. “You say that because you don’t have to deal with her while she’s here, but she’s always watching me, breathing down my neck… it’s exhausting.” 

“Oh? Ask me, I’d say she’s just trying to take care of you,” Takanori said. “Kinda makes me jealous. My mom would never do something like that… I haven’t even heard from her since I got kicked out, you know?” He ran a hand through Kouyou’s hair. He didn’t like talking about his dysfunctional family, even now. “But your mother comes over every now and then… cooks and cleans for you. I’d kill for that.”

“Mom is not doing it out of the kindness of her heart. Not really.”

“No?”

“No.” With that he stood up, moving to the window, opening the blinds slightly, squinting against the white winter. “It’s more like she’s trying to make up. It’s kind of funny… your father kicked you out, yeah? Well, I’ve been in the same situation.”

Takanori frowned. Turning the TV off, he stood up as well, watching Kouyou grab a cigarette and lighting it. “You’ve been homeless?”

“This is back when I was sixteen,” Kouyou said, eyes still fixed on the city outside. “Mom didn’t take too kindly to finding out I was gay. So she kicked me out of the house.”

“…that’s pretty sad,” Takanori said quietly. Was that why Kouyou had been so insistent on giving him someplace to stay? Maybe they had more in common that he had thought… though he wasn’t sure if Kouyou was capable of holding a grudge for so long. “Still, that’s, what? Five years ago?”

Kouyou took a slow drag. “We went some time without talking after that. I only really saw her again… it was nearly three years after, I think.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Kouyou’s smile was weak as he handed Takanori the cigarette. “Want a smoke? I want to go back to sleep.”

“I’d like to join you.”

“Feel free.”

He lingered in the living room for a few minutes, smoking the remaining cigarette. Kouyou had spent the time changing out of his clothes and into his oversized shirt, laying stretched out on his side of the bed, face turned away from the light pouring through the window. The blinds weren’t shut all the way.

“Don’t do that,” came the immediate protest once Takanori moved to close them. “Leave them open.”

“Fine,” Takanori muttered. “I prefer napping in darkness, but sure.”

“Don’t whine.”

Takanori didn’t answer, rolling his eyes as he took a moment to change, refusing to go to sleep wearing his own clothing; there was a reason he kept running off with Kouyou’s old, inexpensive band shirts for bed.

Sliding under the sheets, he cuddled up to Kouyou’s form; it had only been a few days, but he had missed this, Takanori found himself thinking. It was much easier when it was just the two of them curled up together in bed, when his thoughts weren’t running away from him… just too bad the room was so bright. Which reminded him…

“Hey Kou,” Takanori said. “About the dimmers… how did it go?”

Kouyou hummed in response, pulling a pillow down to cover his eyes. “It went fine. Mom just wanted to see if there was any damage or anything… there wasn’t. It was really just an excuse for her to come over.”

“Your landlord didn’t check it over when he first saw them?”

“Landlord doesn’t really care. Far as he’s concerned, anything I do is my mom’s problem, not his.”

“He sure sounds like he cares.”

“Hm.”

“About your mom… want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Takanori didn’t answer, and they lay in silence for a while. Takanori was starting to doze off, his arms around Kouyou, so when Kouyou pulled himself out of the hold he was quick to wake.

“I need a drink,” Kouyou muttered from where he sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Already? It’s only… I don’t know what time it is.”

“A bit past noon, I think.”

“Which is too early to be drinking,” Takanori said, sitting up. Moving closer, he rested a hand on Kouyou’s hip, nudging him slightly. “Just come nap with me. I thought you said you were tired.”

Kouyou shook his head. “Can’t sleep. Alcohol usually helps, but…”

“Is that why you’re always drinking before bed?”

“It relaxes me.”

“That’s not really healthy, you know,” Takanori murmured, wrapping arms around Kouyou’s waist. “You just need to wear yourself out a bit.” The lips he pressed against his neck was hint enough, and Kouyou chuckled as fingers scraped gently against the bruised skin of his bare thighs. “I can help you out, if you want.”

He could practically hear the smirk in Kouyou’s voice. “How kind of you to offer.”

The bruises he left on Kouyou’s thighs were impressively dark when Takanori saw them a few hours later. True to his word they both slept remarkably well; if sex was good for anything, it was draining them of energy, and far superior to alcohol in every thinkable way, at least in Takanori’s opinion. He only wished he didn’t have to wake up so roughly — Kouyou’s phone buzzing loudly on the nightstand was more than enough to pull him out of his dreams, and Kouyou had groaned, given the phone a sour look, and declined the call before settling to type something.

Takanori sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Is it the asshole again?”

“Sure is,” Kouyou said. His voice was rough; he cleared his throat, snapping the phone shut. “I need to go.”

“But we were having such a good time.”

“Yeah, well. It’s getting late. We slept for too long, I think.”

Getting up, Kouyou started going through his dresser for something to wear; Takanori watched him silently. “Where are you headed?”

Stupid question, really. He already knew the answer. “Need to meet up with a guy,” Kouyou said. “That, and buy something to drink. I’ve run out, after all.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“You wouldn’t miss me so much if you did something more productive with your time, Taka.”

“Hm.” He grunted. “Maybe I’ll go out too, then.”

Kouyou gave him a pleased hum in reply, and Takanori stretched. Shopping for booze, huh… that reminded him, Akira hadn’t even touched the beer he’d brought. Takanori guessed he didn’t trust himself to get wasted around Takanori anymore, or maybe he didn’t want to drink Kouyou’s stuff… the cans were still in Akira’s fridge when Takanori had left. The thought of Akira downing all of the beer he’d brought after Takanori had left was a funny one, though. Certainly funnier than thinking of what Kouyou would get up to once he met up with the guy. With Kai.

He fiddled with the ends of the bed sheets as he watched Kouyou’s bruised thighs disappear into dark jeans. “Tell me about your ex-boyfriend, Kou,” he asked, though he wasn’t really expecting an answer. The words made Kouyou stop in the middle of pulling a sweater out, giving Takanori a strange look.

“Why would I?”

“Humor me?” Takanori shrugged. “I’m curious. Wonder what he did that makes you hate him.”

A deep sigh; Kouyou looked strangely defeated, like he didn’t have the energy in him to evade it like usual. “I met him in high school,” Kouyou said slowly, folding the sweater neatly together and leaving it on the dresser as he grabbed for a belt. “In my first year. He was a third-year, and I should’ve known better, but he took interest in me, and it was flattering, so…”

“So you went with it.” That didn’t bode well. Sure, the age difference would only be a few years, but at that age? The images it brought to mind were not pleasant. “What was he like?”

“Pushy.” The word was practically spat from his mouth, dripping with venom. “He wanted sex, but I was young and… scared, and he was older than me. So I didn’t.”

“No wonder you dislike him so much now.”

“Yeah… but he was nice when he didn’t nag at me to sleep with him. We were together for a long time, all things considered… half a year, almost. Then he got sick of waiting around and dumped me.” Pursing his lips, Kouyou hesitated before continuing. “Funny thing is, I wasn’t even there when he did.”

“Huh?”

“He came to my place, but I wasn’t home. My mom answered the door. She didn’t even know we were together,” Kouyou said, closing the dresser, quickly unlocking the closet and grabbing a bag from inside, shuffling things into it. His body blocked Takanori’s view. “Nobody knew about us because we knew we’d get shit if we told anyone. My mother just thought he was a friend. It was supposed to be our secret… but either he figured she knew, or he didn’t give a shit, so he just… told her.”

“And then she kicked you out?” Takanori had to shake his head in exasperation. “Wow. That sure explains things. What a fucking mess. And he couldn’t even wait around to say it to your face…”

“Yeah,” was all Kouyou said.

“That must’ve sucked.” He cringed at his own words the moment they left his mouth, because it really was the understatement of the century. Takanori couldn’t even imagine, being outed like that, having his family find out about his sexuality in such a way… sure, his dad had been a dick about that whole ordeal too, but compared to Kouyou, Takanori’d had it easy. Then again, he had only ever dated girls. And the few guys he had crushed on in his time weren’t exactly major assholes.

Still, he supposed it made sense that Kouyou detested relationships if his only experience with them was something so terrible. A guy pressured him for sex, then sold him out and caused him to get estranged from his family for years. One would lose faith in anything after something like that.

If it was true, anyway.

“Ah, well…” Kouyou stopped halfway through the door, sweater tucked under his arm so he could change out of the shirt in privacy. “It’s past, so not like it matters anymore. Are you gonna stay here all night or go anywhere?”

“I did say I’d go, didn’t I?” he said, and it was probably a lie — there was nothing to really do outside, far as Takanori was concerned, and he had everything he needed to pass the time right there in the apartment, but maybe a walk would do him good. It might help him take his mind off of where Kouyou was going… and what he’d be doing. 

If it was jealousy he could feel rushing through his veins, it was probably not a good thing, so he disregarded the thought.

He was rewarded a gentle smile. “I’m glad. It’s good for you, getting out of the house, you should do it more often.”

With that Kouyou went to the bathroom, and Takanori frowned. Now it just sounded like Kouyou was sick of having him around so much. Or maybe there was something he just didn’t want him to see.

Getting out of bed, he tried the closet doors. They didn’t budge, as expected; Kouyou rarely forgot to lock them, at least when he was around… there was clearly something hidden in there, something more than his guitar and dusty music collection. But as to what it could be, Takanori had no idea. He’d barely gotten a good look the one time the doors had been unlocked; he knew there was more in there… clothes, stacked cardboard boxes. Secrets for him to find.

Maybe he could get hold of the closet key sometime Kouyou wasn’t paying attention… but he kept it on his key ring, and wouldn’t leave the apartment without them. He also had an annoying habit of getting his stuff from the closet before going anywhere, always making sure they were locked before leaving.

Alternatively, Takanori mused, he could just ignore the secretive closet altogether and tail Kouyou to find out where he was going… risky, but it could at least be interesting. He never said where he was headed, either, just that he was going out. So should Kouyou spot him, he could just say it was a coincidence they ended up at the same place…

Slowly, he blinked, realizing what he was on about. _What the hell_ , Takanori thought. _What am I, a detective from one of Akira’s bad movies?_

His thoughts were running off with him. Maybe what he needed was just another nap. And a wank. Preferably over something new Ishida would send… he had gotten so many good videos lately, the collection steadily growing; at this rate he would probably end up exhausting Ishida’s supply, but he didn’t really care. That was kind of the end goal wasn’t it? And he had a few photos that he’d yet to send. 

At the sound of the front door closing, Takanori smirked, grabbing for his phone. Sure, he’d go for a walk… but first he had some new files to get hold of.


	27. Chapter 27

He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep. One moment he was quite happily sketching away in bed, laptop before him and new art supplies situated nearby, feeling content and warm, full of inspiration from a new video. Next thing Takanori knew, he was roughly being pulled from his dreams by the sharp sound of shattering glass, and Kouyou’s voice crying out angrily.

As far as wakeup calls went, that one was probably one of the worst Takanori had ever experienced. What was happening? Drunkenness? Intruders? Had the power gone out again? In his rush to figure out what was going on, he barely had the mind to slide the sketchbook beneath the pillow before he was on his feet, running to the bathroom door, knocking furiously.

“Kouyou?” he all but yelled. “Are you okay in there? What happened?”

It had been so sudden he hadn’t even registered the sound of running water from the shower, only really realizing it was there when it cut off. On the other side of the door, he could hear Kouyou making a soft hissing noise, and the sound of pieces of broken glass sliding on the bathroom tiles, before the lock clicked open and one half of Kouyou peeked at him from the crack in the door. The lights were on, tuned down to a soft half-dark. So it wasn’t another power outage.

A large towel was wrapped around Kouyou’s middle, another one thrown around his shoulders, effectively hiding his whole torso from view. “What are you doing here, Taka? I thought you were out.”

“I was,” Takanori lied, “but I came back. What was that noise? You were screaming, what’s going on?”

Kouyou’s gaze was wavering, bare feet shuffled about a stray piece of broken glass. “I dropped my glass to the floor.”

“You’re drinking in the shower?”

“Only a little.”

“Fucking hell, Kouyou,” Takanori muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why would you even— you scared me. That was really loud, did it just slip or did something happen?”

“There was a spider,” Kouyou said slowly. His visible eye had a glassy look to it, vacant, almost. Like he wasn’t entirely awake, mind somewhere else, or perhaps he was far drunker than he claimed to be. “In the shower. I didn’t see it until it was on me.”

Takanori frowned. Somehow he didn’t really believe that, and Kouyou looked away, door opening slightly further. His face was still turned to the side as if to stare emptily at the tub where an imaginary spider had jumped at him earlier.

Glancing inside, Takanori could see the bottle of sake standing by the sink, more than half empty. Kouyou didn’t really drink anything heavier than beer, unless there was an occasion — usually one he didn’t really like to talk about. He did say he was going shopping, so they probably had beer in the house again… but then again, maybe it was a really big spider.

“It was a really big spider,” Kouyou said.

Yeah, there was no way.

“At least come out of there,” Takanori tried. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“It’s fine…”

“Heard that one before. There’s broken glass on the floor and you’re just in a towel. It’s not gonna be fine when you step on it and get blood all over the floor, now will it?”

Reaching out, he grabbed Kouyou by the arm, pulling at him to get him out of the bathroom, and Kouyou tugged the towel tighter around his middle like a girl would. “Taka, really…”

“Don’t be stubborn, I’m trying to help you here—” abruptly he cut himself off, and Kouyou immediately turned away, hiding the ugly smear of bruising red beneath his eye. “Kouyou, what the hell?!”

“You’d just end up freaking out on me.”

“Well, excuse me for caring— what the fuck, let me look at you,” he said, dragging Kouyou further into the living room, pushing him down to sit on the sofa. Kouyou allowed him to fuss, a tense set to his shoulders as he pulled his towels closer, as though afraid Takanori would see his bare chest should it slip. The skin of his cheek was reddened and slightly swollen, small cuts on Kouyou’s cheekbone already scabbing over. It must have been a while since he got hurt, but not long enough for a darker colour to settle in. He was lucky, Takanori thought; any higher up and he would be getting a black eye.

“Who the fuck hit you?” Takanori said, tips of his fingers drifting across the injured cheek, and Kouyou flinched, turning away. He didn’t meet his gaze.

“... I don’t know.”

“I swear, if you try to bullshit me…”

“Really, Taka,” Kouyou said, sighing. “I was with— at a club, with some people I know, had my sunglasses on because there were a lot of flashing lights…” he reached up to stroke the side of his neck, other hand still clutching the towel firmly. “Then when I’m going to get some drinks, this guy comes up to me and starts telling me off. Clearly thinking that I’m wearing the glasses because I am the asshole here, not because I need them, and things escalated.”

“To the point that he punched you?”

“Yeah.”

Someone like Kouyou showing up in a club, looking like he did — and wearing sunglasses, some drunken idiot could easily get needlessly aggressive. Takanori could imagine that happening with more ease than he was really comfortable with.

“I did punch him back, by the way,” Kouyou assured him. “Trust me, he deserved it. And not just because he hit me, but he… what he was saying.”

He was chewing on his lip, Takanori could see. “Like what?”

“Childish stuff.” He huffed, a displeased set to his mouth, but his eyes were sad. “Calling me things. And… I mean, I get it, I am… I look like I do, but…”

“He called you a fag, didn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question; it didn’t need to be. “Among other things.” Kouyou smiled weakly, running a hand through his long, wet hair. The bruise looked like it was hurting. Takanori had been there himself, not too long ago; telling Kouyou to stay put, he went to the freezer, grabbing the same bag of ice that had been pressed to his own wounds several weeks ago. Carefully avoiding the sharp glass on the bathroom floor, he found a small towel to wrap the ice bag in, handing it to Kouyou who accepted it with a small thanks.

He wasn’t sure if he believed Kouyou’s story. He wasn’t sure if he _could_ , but he wanted to; Takanori _wanted_ to believe that Kouyou didn’t constantly lie to him, that he went to a club with some acquaintances… to drink, party, or just hang out, whatever. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t the truth. He couldn’t ignore the thought that Kouyou had gone to see Kai, that the man had been the one to hit him. The one to call him names, like he had any right to do so. Fag, slut, _whore_.

And that filled Takanori with a dark sense of rage he couldn’t really explain.

He wondered if Akira knew anything, sitting down next to Kouyou, who pressed the ice carefully to his cheek with a small hiss. Takanori doubted it was likely, but that didn’t mean it was impossible… and he had kind of promised to tell Akira, should anything happen. Getting decked in the face was certainly reason enough to call.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard about something,” Kouyou said softly. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t.”

He grunted. “Let me see your hands.”

Kouyou obliged, laying the ice down so Takanori could take his hands into his own, turning them over, studying them for damage. There was a small bit of bruising across the knuckles of Kouyou’s right hand, proof enough he was telling the truth about punching the guy back. That, at least, was comforting, knowing Kai got what he deserved.

Lifting the hand up, Takanori pressed the wounded skin against his lips, and Kouyou sighed, idly fiddling with the edge of his towel. “I should go get dressed.”

“You should stay out of the bathroom, actually. At least until I’ve cleared the glass away. What happened to the spider?”

“Shower happened.”

“So no chance it’ll jump me when I’m in there.”

“Only if you go down the pipes,” he chuckled. “Just don’t step on the glass, you’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure there really was a spider? Maybe you just imagined it.”

Kouyou looked mildly insulted. “Don’t you trust me, Taka?”

He almost wanted to laugh at that. “You’ve been drinking,” he said instead. It earned him a huff, and Kouyou stood up from the sofa, pausing to send a longing glance towards the bottle of sake before disappearing into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t bring the ice with him, Takanori realized. Getting to his feet, he put it back in the freezer, taking a moment to peek into the fridge. There was no beer inside.

Huh. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised, Takanori mused; it wasn’t an attractive idea, going shopping after being punched in the face. Especially not since it meant being in public with a bruised cheek bared to the world. He’d been there, done that, and it had been awful.

Kouyou would probably go the next day, though. He did have his makeup kit lying around, and he wasn’t going to stand being without his beloved alcohol for long… the sake bottle was nearly empty and wouldn’t last, Takanori knew, sure to grab it once he finished disposing of the broken glass. Heading for the bedroom, he found Kouyou sitting on the edge of the bed, burning cigarette between his fingers, staring out the window.

“Got something for you,” Takanori said, leaving the door open behind him. His eyes darted to the side. The laptop still stood there, and it had gone dormant hours ago, so there was no danger, but it still made him nervous. Kouyou didn’t seem to care, however, paying the computer no mind.

“Thanks,” he said when handed the bottle, setting it on the nightstand next to the ashtray. The blinds were rolled up, window open to let the smoke swirl out into the cold winter night. “I need to ask you something.”

Takanori felt himself freeze for a moment, a sense of dread crawling down his spine. The laptop was locked. Kouyou didn’t know his password. There was no way he could know, right? Or had he found the sketchpad? Fuck, it was right _there_ under the pillow, and that was only supposed to be a temporary hiding place, but he’d forgotten about it in the midst of everything else… “Sure,” he said, calming himself. “What is it?”

The look he was given was a dark one, ugly, almost. The darkening bruise only served to intensify the effect. “I don’t know what you do in here when I’m away,” Kouyou started, “and I don’t care, but you really need to stop leaving the blinds closed. I need them open. How many times do I need to tell you?”

“Huh—? Oh.” He was puzzled for a moment, but had to take a mental breath of relief. So that’s what Kouyou was on about. “Sorry. I just like having it dark around me, I guess I just forget.”

Kouyou frowned, stubbing out what remained of the cigarette, getting up to close the window. “Well, get it through your skull already.”

“It takes you two seconds to open them again, you don’t need to get so worked up about it,” Takanori said, closing the laptop to put it away, carefully grabbing the sketchbook as he did so. “I get you don’t like the dark, but nothing’s stopping you from buying yourself a night light or something. No need to take it out on me.”

“You’re a moron,” Kouyou grumbled. “It’s a window. If all I needed was a lamp I’d have gotten one ages ago, or installed dimmers in here as well.”

“Lamp or window, what’s the difference? It’s still a source of light. That, and an annoyance.”

“The difference is the _world_ , Takanori.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It means I like being able to look outside and assure myself that there is a world beyond this room, which is something I’m sure you need to do more often,” Kouyou said. Taking a swig from the sake, he sat down on the bed again, sighing. “I just need to be able to see beyond the walls. Makes me feel trapped otherwise.”

Takanori frowned, pride slightly wounded. “No need to be mean.”

“This isn’t me being mean, Taka, this is me pointing out the obvious. You barely leave the house. At this rate, you’ll end up rotting in here.”

Takanori didn’t reply to that, scowling as he moved his laptop over to his pile of stuff in the corner, making sure the sketchpad was sufficiently hidden, deciding to get ready for bed. Kouyou probably knew he hadn’t gone out like he said he would, then. But it didn’t seem like something that would matter. So why was he so adamant about it?

… maybe Kouyou didn’t want him around all the time because he was afraid that Takanori would find out about his secrets. Maybe he wanted Takanori gone tonight, because he knew that Kai would hit him, and there was no avoiding explaining that one away, aside from with a well-crafted lie. If Takanori hadn’t stayed, would he had come home to find carefully applied makeup on Kouyou’s face every day for the next few weeks? Was he crafty enough to hide his bruise completely? But why did Kai hit him… and how would Kouyou have known?

As much as Takanori wanted to believe the bar story was true, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe anything Kouyou told him lately. It seemed as if every word, every explanation just turned out to be lies, bullshit hand-fed to keep Takanori from knowing what was really going on, and he was growing sick of it.

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he sighed, grabbing for his toothbrush. Was he really any better himself? Waiting for Kouyou to leave, so he could watch whatever Ishida had sent him, spend the private time drawing and jerking off to fantasies about blind boy despite having Kouyou right there…

They were both liars, Takanori knew. They both had secrets to hide from each other, and whatever their relationship had become, it was not built on mutual trust and respect. He only wished he knew what Kouyou refused to let him know, what he was really involved in, why he allowed himself be abused in such a way. As blind boy he was constantly abused in the videos, yes, but the markings were never left on his face, as far as Takanori could tell. At least not beyond the occasional time his lips were bitten bloody, either by faceless strangers or himself.

Leaving the bathroom, Takanori turned off the lights as he went. Had the story with the boyfriend been real? Maybe he should ask Akira, just to make sure… assuming Akira would dare to say anything, that is. He, too, seemed rather paranoid about telling too much, yet he still wanted Takanori to keep him updated.

Fat chance Takanori would let that happen without getting anything in return.

It was getting late. Akira would probably be in bed by now, after a long day of work, and to get a good night’s sleep to prepare for another hard week of college. Takanori didn’t really know what Akira got up to on weekdays, but nor did he care. Akira’d be up and about soon enough once he realized who was calling, he knew. But where’d he left his phone? A few minutes' search led to nothing. He’d probably left it in the bedroom… sure enough, there it was, lying innocently on the nightstand next to the ashtray.

And Kouyou was still sitting on the edge of the bed, bottle of sake still clutched in his hand as he stared off into space, fingers ghosting over his injured cheek.

Or rather, staring out the window. “Come to bed, Taka.”

“I’m not tired yet,” Takanori said, grabbing his phone. “I’ll come later.”

He paused, seeing Kouyou lower his gaze, eyes fixing somewhere on the floorboards. He wasn’t dressed for bed, Takanori noticed — the tee had been replaced by a shirt that was comically oversized, its sleeves reaching past his knuckles, and he had leggings underneath. That was new. “What’s with the outfit?”

“I’m cold.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have opened the window,” Takanori said. “Trust me, once you get in bed, you won’t be freezing.”

Kouyou bit his lip. “Not tonight. I’m too tired to fuck.”

“That’s not what I—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever. Good night, Kou.”

With that Takanori left the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him as he opened his phone, finding Akira’s number. He glanced behind himself. It was too quiet, he decided, choosing to step out into the hallway. Kouyou wasn’t very likely to overhear him there.

Settling on the staircase, he made the call, and just as expected, it took a few rings before Akira picked up.

“ _... Takanori?”_ Akira’s voice came. “ _Why’re you calling me at this hour? I got school in the morning.”_

“Where were you today?”

“ _... what?” Akira sounded puzzled. “Dude, if you say you called me just to ask me about my day…”_

“Just answer the question.”

“ _I was working. What’s going on?”_

So he hadn’t been at the bar, either. Takanori pressed his lips together. “It’s about Kouyou, but tell me something first, Aki,” Takanori said. “And it’s really important that you’re straight with me here… Kouyou’s ex. What did he do to make everyone hate him so much?”

There was a pause on the other end. “ _What’s that got to do with—”_

“I’ll tell you why I called you, but I need you to answer this first.”

He could hear Akira considering it, and for a few seconds the only sound he could make out were Akira’s soft breathing. “ _Fine,”_ he said after a moment. “ _I don’t understand why it would matter, but fine. What is it you want to know about him?”_

“Just that. What he did.”

“ _The guy was a selfish ass_ ,” Akira began, distaste already staining his voice. “ _We were young at the time, me and Shima. Just kids, really. The guy— he was nearly eighteen, almost a damn adult, but he liked Kouyou. And Kouyou liked him back… I didn’t get what he saw in him, I still don’t, but—”_

“Don’t get off topic, ‘kira.”

A small huff. “ _Right. Well, they got together. It seemed fine at first but after a while, Shima started coming to me, saying how much of a jerk the boyfriend was, how he kept… pressuring him to do things he didn’t want to.”_ The vehemence he held over the ex-boyfriend was clear as day, even through the phone, even though Akira still sounded tired. Takanori frowned to himself; so far, the story matched… but he wouldn’t believe it to be true just yet.

“What kind of things?”

“ _What do you think? Sex stuff.”_ A forced laugh. “ _But we were just sixteen… I told Kouyou to leave him, but he didn’t. I told Kouyou I’d beat the shit out of the guy if he’d just let me, but he didn’t. It went on for_ months _. It was hell. Then one day he goes to Kouyou’s house to say they should break up because he can’t stand having blue balls any longer. Except Kouyou wasn’t home, so he said that to Kouyou’s mother. Told her to pass the message along… she wasn’t exactly happy about it.”_

“Fucking hell. Did she do something stupid?”

“ _You got that right. Kicked him out, didn’t even let him get a chance to pack or anything_ …” Akira sighed deeply, voice softening. “ _She never forgave herself for that.”_

“Well, I’m starting to see why you would be upset at the thought of us together,” Takanori muttered, more to himself than Akira. So it was true, then. Takanori bit his lip; he wasn’t sure what to think anymore, knowing Kouyou hadn’t lied… not about that, anyway. He wasn’t _always_ dishonest. 

Just most of the time.

“ _So_ ,” Akira said, “ _care to tell me what’s going on now?”_

Takanori grunted. “Kouyou was out today,” he said. “Claims he was out drinking.”

“ _That’s not exactly unusual.”_

“Someone punched him.”

“ _What?”_

“In the face.”

“ _Why the fuck— do you know who?!”_

“Calm down, Aki.” Standing up, Takanori leaned against the wall, studying his fingernails. “Kouyou said he didn’t know the guy. Just some drunken idiot who thought he looked like he deserved it, apparently.”

There was some indiscernible muttering from Akira’s end. “ _Well, do you believe him?”_

“Honestly, I think he’s full of shit.”

“ _Yeah.”_ Akira sighed. “ _You’re probably right about that… I wish I knew, but I don’t. He doesn’t tell me anything.”_

“Who is he really looking for, Akira?”

“ _I really don’t know… I can only guess.”_

Takanori groaned, frustrated with the answer. He already knew Akira wouldn’t spill it, finding it too much of a risk to let Takanori in on what he knew. “Is it the ex?”

“ _No. Far as I know the bastard has nothing to do with this. He’s back home, works as… I don’t remember. Something uninteresting.”_

“And by home, you don’t mean Tokyo, I take it?”

“ _By home I mean our hometown.”_

“Figures.”

“ _Why do you ask?”_

“… the guy he’s looking for is somewhere in the city. That’s all I know.”

“ _I see.”_

“I’m gonna go now.”

“ _Thanks for telling me this, Taka_ ,” Akira said. “ _I mean it.”_

“Yeah, no problem.”

He didn’t waste much time before going back into the apartment, locking the front door. The sake bottle stood empty on the nightstand, and Kouyou appeared to be asleep, blankets pulled up to his waist, face buried in pillows. It was odd to see him wearing so much to bed, after seeing him in only the thin t-shirt and underwear for so long.

Takanori didn’t know what was going on, but Kouyou hadn’t lied about everything. He’d have to find some way to tell the truth from the lies… or maybe he just needed a different approach if he wanted to figure out what Kouyou was really up to. As for now it didn’t really matter, Takanori thought, pulling Kouyou close; it earned a shallow moan as Kouyou curled up further, making himself comfortable in Takanori’s embrace. He molded his body perfectly against Takanori’s form, sighing softly when Takanori pressed lips gently to his long hair, his bruised neck; god, he loved doing that.

Liar or not, Takanori still loved him.


	28. Chapter 28

Kouyou was… upset.

That was one way of putting it. _Moody_ was a more apt description, but bitchy would probably be better suited for how Kouyou was acting lately. In the days since the shower incident, his attitude had soured considerably; it seemed all Kouyou did when he was home was smoke and drink, ignoring his near-constantly ringing phone, and his patience was strained even for his beloved video games.

Though the bruise hadn’t seemed too bad at first, it had taken on a purple colour. While it didn’t look that bad, it was probably painful. Even so he still went out, after thoroughly covering his injury — a few times he would return carrying shopping bags filled with nothing but beer and cigarettes.

Takanori supposed it was a good thing they had food in the house before the incident, because he hadn’t seen much grocery shopping being done lately. The entire situation was concerning, to say the least. And with Kouyou being Kouyou, he of course refused all attempts at talking about what was troubling him. Takanori had tried. So far it had gotten him an angry glare, a snide comment, and a few mild insults along with the usual redirecting of the topic.

So yeah, bitchy was probably the best word to describe Kouyou right now.

He was starting to feel somewhat trapped. Even though he still got the apartment to himself practically every day, he withdrew whenever Kouyou was home, because in his current state, Kouyou was— well, he wasn’t nice to be around. He was irritating, if anything.

Any other time and Takanori wouldn’t have minded Kouyou’s presence, but with the grating moodiness, all Takanori could do was stay in the bedroom, avoiding his friend. It reminded him of living with his parents, honestly; keeping to himself, staying in one room and out of the way so he wouldn’t feel like they could corner him, so he wouldn’t have to deal with either their prodding or indifference.

Kouyou fell in the latter category. He barely paid Takanori attention lately... and he was always so heavily dressed, as if he had something to cover up. Takanori could only speculate. Either the punch to the face had had a much bigger impact on Kouyou than he claimed, or there was something going on in his circle of… whatever it was his _contacts_ were doing. Possibly both. Kai could be one of Kouyou’s pack of paid hunters, for all Takanori was aware.

Nothing was certain when it came to Kouyou. Except for the boyfriend story; Akira’s confirmation had brought some peace of mind regarding that, at least.

Takanori sighed as his phone buzzed, seeing what the message was; another bit of nag from Ishida. That, too, had become an annoyance lately. Not that Ishida hadn’t always been annoying, but he seemed more insistent the past few days, demanding Takanori tell him more, show him more… it was irritating. What didn't help matters was how he had apparently gotten hold of Takanori's phone number at some point — or maybe he'd always had it, but always settled for mail — and now he was nagging not only through emails, but through texting as well. He had yet to actually make a call, thankfully, but Takanori would rather go without the extra bit of annoyance in his life. The videos made up for it, but still.

Ishida wouldn’t shut up.

Frowning, Takanori stared at the message, small phone screen glowing in the semi-dark room. Did Ishida know what Kouyou was going through? He doubted it; Takanori was far from stupid, the only thing he’d sent Ishida’s way were some pictures he had saved a few weeks prior. There was no way he could know about the bruise. Or there _should_ be no way, at least. For all he knew, Ishida could have been there, could have been following Kouyou around and seen it himself… it would certainly explain why he was so demanding lately…

He flinched when the phone buzzed again, a new message popping up. More begging. Closing the phone, he put it away, considering. There were no spare photos left, and taking photos had become difficult lately; not just because of the prissiness and the telltale bruise, but also because while at home, Kouyou refused to wear anything but some ridiculously oversized shirts grabbed from the very back of his dresser. And he always wore leggings beneath them… Ishida would demand to see more skin before he was happy enough to comply and send a video over, Takanori knew from experience.

Opening his folders, Takanori counted his videos. Aside from the short snippet he’d found on the dark web, there were nearly thirty videos so far… Ishida had said there were sixty in total, but he only had half of them. Their little arrangement would be coming to an end soon enough, then. Especially if Ishida kept this up.

It was almost saddening, in a way, but at the same time he looked forward to it. No more videos meant he wouldn’t have to deal with Ishida anymore, and he could stop taking pictures when Kouyou wasn’t paying attention. That would be a relief, even if he would miss blind boy.

Blind boy… he uttered a sigh. It really had been half a year by now, hadn’t it? When Akira had tried to shake the answers from him, he’d not really considered his answer too much, but now that he was alone again with his thoughts and his computer files, he could count the months from when he’d first received the first one. Six months since Ishida sent the first video, six months since he met Kouyou, since their friendship took root and began to grow. And now it had evolved into something nearly unrecognizable, though its foundations were rocky at best, always on the edge of crumbling. A wrong word was all it would take for everything to come tumbling down.

It was flawed. It was fragile. But deep down in the mess that was their relationship there was _something_ , Takanori knew, something that was beautiful and _pure_. Something he didn’t deserve, but desperately wanted… though he wasn’t sure if Kouyou deserved it either. They were both awful people in their own ways. Takanori was horrible on practically every level, and Kouyou was a compulsive liar who was looking for _someone_ to burn to the ground and who pushed people away if they knew too much.

Twenty-nine videos. Six months. Soon that would be ending. It was for the better, but he just wished he knew who made these videos in the first place, why they were so secretive, to the point that there was a network devoted purely to selling them…

Porn. Why, of all things, did Kouyou choose to go down that road after his mother kicked him out? But it definitely explained why he looked so young in many of the works, why he was nicknamed _boy_ , if he was… Takanori swallowed thickly, burying the thought that was gnawing at him. It looked like Ishida had been sending the older stuff lately, too, probably going back through his own files. The artist had high standards when it came to the quality of their work. If only Takanori knew who they were.

While the dates weren’t listed, the file names appeared to be organized rather neatly, even though Takanori didn’t know what the seemingly random string of numbers was supposed to mean, so they still showed up in the order they were created. There were quite a few gaps, of course, where files were missing. Ishida only had half the videos.

A shift had happened at some point, regarding the actors. Kouyou was always present, of course, but the men he was with had at some point gone from a wide and varied cast to just a few people, as far as Takanori could tell. Their faces were always obscured, either by masks, angles, cloth — or scribbles of ink, as was the case with one of the recurring men, but their body types were different, so he could tell them apart to a point.

It was strange to watch Kouyou as blind boy knowing all of that. Especially in the videos Ishida had recently been sending, the ones that were older, where he was younger. Blindfolded and dark-haired but so obviously young and frail, his skinny chest bare and shivering, gasping for breath as his air supply was cut off by the thin red strings wrapped around his throat. The scene was bright this time, the sole light source a streetlamp overhead that occasionally blinked out, drowning everything in darkness for a few brief moments. The ground was covered in a thick layer of snow.

Aside from those few seconds when the light died, near everything was white and blindingly bright despite the dark theme the video seemed to convey. It was odd, Takanori found, but it wasn’t unusual that there would be a heavy emphasis on the lighting in the artist’s work; at times, light — or the lack thereof — nearly felt like a character in itself, even more so than blind boy.

Maybe he should start experimenting more with lighting and shading in his art. It would make for a nice challenge. His talents had only grown in the past months, with all the work he had been doing… of course, what he really wanted to do was make a larger image — a whole painting, even, of blind boy bathing in both the light and the darkness. Not that it was doable; sketching was one thing, but painting was far too risky with Kouyou around. If he went away for a week or two, then sure, Takanori could paint whatever he wanted… not that he’d have anywhere to put it afterwards.

Sighing, Takanori opened his phone again, looking over the row of messages nagging at him for more. None of the pictures were good enough to sate Ishida, and there were no stories left to tell either. He glanced towards the nightstand; maybe… no, Kouyou’s old, half-burned photos were to be left alone. He wouldn’t sink _that_ low. His secrets were his own, Takanori had decided on that when this whole mess had first started. The closet was locked, as always. Ishida probably wouldn’t be very interested in hearing about a discarded love for music.

 _His hair was blue once, when he was younger_ , he typed. It was not enough to satisfy, but enough to pique interest. _It’s getting really long lately as you’ve seen. He will probably be cutting it soon. _And it was true; Kouyou’s hair was reaching well past his shoulders by this point, locks shiny and smooth to the touch.__

He wondered what it would be like if Kouyou let him pull at it. As it was, Takanori could only dream when it came to handling Kouyou the way he wanted, the way the men in the videos did. He was never the one in charge during sex, and he was okay with that, sure, but that didn’t stop him from wanting things to be different.

A lot of things would be different, if Takanori got his way, thoughts drifting further away, only to be brought down when the phone buzzed in his hands.

 _I know_ , was all the message said. What? He didn’t get the time to ask what Ishida meant, however; a moment later, he received another text. _There are two vids from before where his hair was blue. I can show you in return for something good_

Takanori declined; he didn’t have to think very hard to know what ‘something good’ meant to Ishida. And two videos? He’d already found one of them; he should be able to track down the other one no problem. Creepy as it had been, from… before. Before what, Takanori didn’t know.

_Your loss._

The words seemed to mock him; Takanori tossed the phone onto the bed. One more video to earn from Ishida, one more to find on the dark web, and then he could clean his hands off this whole deal. He just had to be patient.

 

Kouyou was standing in the bathroom, gingerly applying makeup around his eyes.

While not a rarity the last few days, it was unusual for Takanori to see him go any further than just covering the bruise, though it truly was a sight to see Kouyou sporting immaculate eyeliner. For someone who had made a living for years doing porn while blindfolded, he was very good at dolling his eyes up.

It was an interesting thought. What if blind boy had been wearing eyeliner beneath the blindfold all along? Kind of pointless, sure, but who knew what happened once the cameras were turned off… fiddling with his pencil, Takanori continued to sketch from where he was leaning against the doorframe. Kouyou didn’t seem to mind being drawn like this. He hadn’t uttered a word so far, simply regarding Takanori when he first opened the door, and continued the work. He seemed to be finishing up now, though; satisfied, Kouyou grabbed for a hairbrush to begin styling his hair

He was clearly planning to go somewhere, dressed up in form-fitting clothes and jewelry. Takanori wondered if he would dress up like this for his ex, in the past, if he’d spend time to make himself all pretty, wanting to please the boyfriend in some way despite refusing to sleep with the guy. Takanori pressed his lips together; it wasn’t jealousy he felt, not really. He wasn’t sure what it was.

“Hey Kou,” he said, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Have you ever been in love?”

“In love?” Kouyou didn’t do so much as blink, not fazed by the sudden question. “I used to be.”

“But not anymore?”

“I used to fall in love a lot before, actually. It’s kind of funny…” he sighed, running his hands through his long hair, saying himself done. “Now it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Takanori said. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the answer, though. “So who are you dressing up for?”

“Not somebody I love,” Kouyou said. “Stop making assumptions. I’m not trying to impress anyone. This is for myself.”

“Seems a lot of preparation for nothing.”

“Clearly you’ve never been to a party in your life.”

“So that’s where you’re heading?”

“I’m really just going clubbing, but sure. It’s close enough.”

“In the middle of the week?”

“I don’t exactly have a reason to get up early, and not like there’s anything better to do with my time than go downtown,” Kouyou muttered, adjusting his rings. “So yeah. Clubbing on a weekday. So what? Have you got anything better to do?”

“Well, no, but at least it won’t involve alcohol.”

Kouyou didn’t fail to notice another remark about his constant drinking habits. “Bite me,” he said. “How about you actually go somewhere for once? Don’t you get sick of seeing the same four walls every day?”

“Hey, I find the place comforting.”

“And I find it comforting to know we actually do something with our time beyond just sitting around at home, doing nothing.”

Takanori frowned, closing his sketchbook. “What crawled up your ass and died?” But Kouyou didn’t answer, merely sighing, grabbing his makeup kit and zipping it closed. Takanori stepped back as he walked out, shoving the kit into his bag, checking that he had the sunglasses he would need for his hot night out. Takanori didn’t like the idea of it, of Kouyou being all dolled up in clubs surrounded by strangers, drinking until dawn, maybe even going home with someone… he couldn’t help the scowl that crept onto his face. _Not exclusive_ , he reminded himself. It didn’t matter what Takanori thought or wanted, Kouyou wasn’t his, and he never would be.

“You know, maybe I’ll take your advice,” he said, uncrossing his arms. Kouyou paused then, halfway through lacing up his boots — his nice ones, too, despite the heavy snow. “You wouldn’t mind if I tag along?”

The look in Kouyou’s eyes was unreadable. “I do mind, actually,” he said, continuing to get dressed. “I’d love if you went somewhere, but I want to be alone tonight.”

“Isn’t socializing kind of point the of clubbing?”

“Yeah, but even I get sick of seeing your face after so long, Taka,” Kouyou said, smirking. “Get out and live a little. And try to have fun, will you?”

“Sure,” he muttered, and Kouyou made a pleased humming noise as he continued to get dressed. He gave Takanori a nod as he slid on the sunglasses, ready to go. “See you around.”

And Kouyou was gone. Really, what was even the point with all the makeup if he was just going to hide it? Maybe the club was a particularly poorly-lit one, enough that he’d take the sunglasses off once inside… Takanori chewed on his lip. He didn’t believe Kouyou for a second; it was obvious he was dressing up for _someone_ , Takanori just didn’t know who, or why. What reason could there be to get so dolled up — sure, Kouyou’s outfit was simple, but with his eyes surrounded by dark makeup and not a hair out of place, he was definitely looking to impress.

Hell, there was no way Takanori wasn’t doing this. He was too curious for his own good, and that mystery movie Akira had picked the week previously was a terrible influence. In his defense, he had reasons to be concerned — after what happened last time Kouyou had been to a club (or a bar, whatever difference did it make, really), not to mention Ishida’s recent behavior, Takanori could in theory prevent something disastrous from going down. 

With his excuse settled, he grabbed his wallet and keys, getting dressed quickly. Pulling a beanie down over his stark blond hair, he was off. It had only been a few minutes; Kouyou couldn’t have gotten far. The area outside the apartment complex was pretty deserted, especially at this hour, so all Takanori had to do was follow the single pair of footprints down the sidewalk until he could spot Kouyou’s tall form.

Careful to stay out of view, Takanori followed.

The club was located in a relatively desolate street quite some ways from their place. Kouyou seemed to know exactly where he was going — obviously, he’d been there before, heading directly for the rather obscure entrance of a small, slightly sketchy-looking club. There was no bouncer at the entrance, at least. That was a small blessing.

Inside it was dark, dim lights lining the wall of the corridor that lead to the club proper. There were booths in the back, a dance floor, a bar. Music was playing, but it wasn’t as loud as Takanori expected, and the lights were turned down, giving the place a somewhat private atmosphere despite the people populating the club. While not exactly crowded, it wasn’t as empty as Takanori had thought it would be, what with it being the middle of the week.

It didn’t take him long to spot Kouyou — he had settled in one of the booths in the back, together with a couple people Takanori had never seen before. It was hard to get a good look at them from a distance, especially with how dim it was, but they seemed to just be talking, drinks already served. They must have ordered knowing he would come, Takanori thought… a nearby woman was giving him an odd look. He must have looked suspicious, just standing there, still covered in snow, so quickly he put away his jacket and beanie, taking a seat by the bar. It was too far away to overhear anything from the booths, especially with the music, but he could get a good view without looking too strange. He just hoped Kouyou would be too busy with his people to notice he was there.

“You know, if you want to approach someone, it’s best to just do it.”

Takanori tore his eyes away from Kouyou, meeting the gaze of the tall woman behind the bar. “What? I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t staring, honey. Heard that one before.” She was smiling at him, as professionally as a slightly sleazy bartender could. “Need some liquid courage? Or maybe not. You look pretty young. Sure you’re supposed to be here?”

“I’m old enough to be drinking, thank you very much,” Takanori muttered, slightly offended. “I’ll have…” he trailed off, staring at the bottles lined up behind the bar. He couldn’t handle alcohol well, and he shouldn’t risk it. “Juice. You got any juice?”

“Guess I won’t be carding you then,” the woman said, moving away to get his order and tend to another customer. Takanori glanced back to the booth; no change, they were still sitting there, talking. One of the men gesturing towards the entrance of the club. It looked like they were waiting for someone… and Kouyou hadn’t taken the sunglasses off. Or maybe he’d just switched them out for another pair.

Looking away, Takanori studied the people around him. There was nobody he could recognize, at least not yet. Ishida didn’t seem to be there. That was a plus. He had likely occupied himself with the picture Takanori had snapped earlier, when Kouyou was still getting ready… if it all worked out according to plan, the last video — assuming it was indeed the last one — would be sitting in his inbox by the time he came home. And then Takanori could finally cut Ishida out of his life once and for all… 

“Here you go, kid,” the bartender said, placing a glass of juice in front of him. “Hope you like orange. You didn’t specify what you wanted.”

“I’m not a kid,” Takanori grumbled, but he nodded in thanks. “Orange juice is fine.” The woman didn’t reply, merely chuckling and returning to her work. Takanori sighed, lifting his glass. He should have expected having to deal with people at some point… but the juice was good, at least.

Huh. Really good, actually. He should ask about the brand. 

Setting the glass down, he looked over at Kouyou again — he, too, was glancing towards the entrance every now and then, but under the table he was fiddling with the end of his shirt. What reason could he have to be nervous, Takanori wondered, looking away, eyes drifting back to the people around him. He didn’t see anyone he knew… or at least that’s what he thought until he looked to the side, spotting a lone figure sitting at the end of the bar. Takanori paused, seeing him, the moping man from Kato’s place. What the fuck was _he_ doing here? Was he stalking Kouyou too? Not that Takanori was the one _stalking_ , per se, more like keeping an eye out and making sure Ishida wasn’t following Kouyou around — but if this guy was here, then he had reason to be concerned.

Looking away, he frowned deeply, staring into his orange juice. Best not to get the guy’s attention. Kouyou seemed to know him in some way, after all, and if he noticed they were both there, there’d be hell to pay… Takanori didn’t really want to imagine the consequences should Kouyou spot them. At least there were plenty of people here; he wouldn’t stand out too bad, even with his bleached hair.

The guy didn’t look out of place either, but he did look well on his way to wasted. He was slouching in his seat, fingers tapping the glass he would take a swig from every now and then, dark hair falling into his eyes and obscuring his face, yet he kept looking over to the booths where Kouyou sat. He looked sketchy, to say the least.

But not as sketchy as the guy who was walking up to the booths, heading directly for Kouyou; Takanori could see it, the way the man looked Kouyou up and down, and noticing him, Kouyou came to attention. He nodded in greeting, grabbed his drink and got up, following the new man to another, empty booth. They talked. Kouyou took his sunglasses off, his expression calm and collected as the stranger grinned at him.

The man at the bar was watching them carefully.

Takanori took a slow sip of his juice; the stranger currently hounding Kouyou’s attention was tall and gangly-looking, not unlike Ishida, but he had a more… predatory way of carrying himself. He seemed to be physically bigger, too; certainly a bigger threat than Ishida had ever been. But then again Ishida wasn’t the type of person to go through with things unless he had someone hold his hand throughout the whole ordeal, as far as Takanori could tell. On he other hand, this guy had no such problem, judging by the way he was practically leaning over the table as they talked, and Kouyou looked more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Safe to say the stranger was a major fucking creep.

Biting his lip, Takanori looked away; he felt the need to intervene, but he knew he couldn’t. How was he going to explain that one? They were nearly on the other side of town, no way Kouyou would believe it was just a coincidence they ended up at the same place — and he couldn’t exactly talk it away by bringing up Ishida, either… glancing back, he saw the creep had left his seat, pushing Kouyou against the wall of the booth so he could force himself into the seat next to him.

He furrowed his brows in concern; Kouyou did not look happy in the slightest about the guy being so close. If only Takanori could hear what they were saying, but their voices were not raised and the music still too loud. Kouyou looked annoyed, from what Takanori could see, but with the creep blocking the view it was hard to really tell. Was he staying calm and putting up with it, or was he protesting, telling the guy to back the fuck off? Takanori didn’t know, he could only watch, unsure as to what was going on but knowing better than to try do anything about it.

Takanori didn’t even notice the man at the bar had gotten up until he was there — unlike Kouyou and the stranger, he had no qualms regarding raising his voice, and Takanori could make out a pissed off, slurred _get the fuck off him_ over the loud music as he grabbed the creep’s arm, all but dragging him out of the booth.

Kouyou did not look pleased about the timely intervention, not in the slightest. Whatever he was saying Takanori couldn’t hear, voice an angry hiss through clenched teeth — but his body language was easy to read. Takanori pitied the man, really. And he didn’t know who he was or what was going on, but it was hard to miss the way Kouyou flinched when the man put a hand on his shoulder, practically pleading to — what exactly, Takanori didn’t know — and Kouyou grabbed his half-empty glass off the table, throwing the contents in the man’s face. 

Fuck. That was rough.

Dismissing the now soaked man, Kouyou grabbed his bag, saying something to the creep who had gotten off the floor and looked ready to start a fight, but whatever Kouyou said made him back off, thankfully. People were staring; the bartender was looking annoyed, and Kouyou clearly knew he’d caused a scene. Turning to the men from before, he told them something, and they were quick to gather their things, all following Kouyou out, including the creep. Takanori kept his head down as they walked by, praying he wouldn’t be noticed — he doubted he really was in danger of being seen, though. Kouyou seemed way too distracted and pissed off to really pay attention to anything other than the exit as he pushed his way through the crowd, leaving the club, his associates close on his heels.

Takanori stared after them. Should he follow? Would it be a good idea to see where Kouyou was off to with his entourage of creepy people? Well, no. Takanori would probably get caught quite easily; it wouldn’t be worth the risk… but he was alone in the club. He could just leave, and see when Kouyou would return later, asking him what he’d been up to then. And what, get lied to again? Yeah, sure. Great plan. But what of the man from the bar, from Kato’s place… why was _he_ here?

And why did Kouyou get so angry when he intervened… Takanori looked around; the man wasn’t at the booths nor the bar. A glance to the far end of the club confirmed his suspicions, seeing someone stumbling towards what looked like the bathrooms. Taking a swig of the last of his juice, Takanori got up from his seat, moving to follow. Time for some answers.

Despite being such a small place, the bathroom was oddly spacious, Takanori found upon entering. Seemed pretty clean too. He spotted the man in a corner, dabbing uselessly at his stained shirt with a paper towel. Upon hearing someone approach he looked up, and he paused, seeing Takanori.

A quick glance to the side confirmed that they were alone in the room. Takanori cleared his throat. “Hey, man,” he started. “Saw what happened. Pretty rough.”

The man just stared, puzzled. “Wh— what do you want from me?” he said, clutching his wad of paper towel tightly as Takanori stepped closer. At the strong stench of alcohol, Takanori made a face; that must have been one potent drink Kouyou had thrown at him.

“Nothing,” Takanori shrugged. “Just wondering what happened back there, is all.” Stopping by the sink, he began to wash his hands, giving the guy a casual, friendly smile.

It didn’t seem to be working. The man looked alarmed, blatantly staring, though his eyes were slightly glazed over; he must have been drinking for a while. “But you’re— but you know.” Takanori gave a puzzled look, and the man hesitated before explaining. “You’re Takashima’s… of course I know, you’re always together.”

Of course the guy would’ve noticed him; Takanori would be stupid to think he hadn’t after all this time. He had figured he only had eyes for Kouyou, though… but whoever this man was, he was clearly not on first name basis with Kouyou. Not like Takanori would be expecting him to be, after seeing him get the cold shoulder for weeks on end. “I’m not his boyfriend, if that’s what you think.” Turning off the tap, Takanori shook his hands, moving to dry them. “But I know you,” he said, keeping his voice low, almost ominous in the empty room. “I keep seeing you around. Been starting to wonder if you’re stalking him.”

“I’m not!” the man exclaimed, and Takanori raised a brow. “I’m not stalking— I would never! I just… am worried, about Takashima… but he won’t let me.” His eyes were lowered, fingers fiddling with the worn piece of paper in his hands.

“Won’t let you what?”

“Help him. Anything. Won’t acknowledge I exist, after I failed him. But he… he needs me,” the man said. Balling the paper towel up in his hand, he threw it away; it landed on the floor, somewhere under the sink. “He’s in trouble. I can help him. I know he needs me.”

“... you must be imagining things to think Kouyou would need anything from someone like you,” Takanori said slowly. “I’m sure he has a good reason for avoiding you. Who are you, anyway?”

“Shiroyama,” the man said softly and looked away, as if that alone explained everything. “Shiroyama Yuu.”

“Well, nice to meet you, but your name alone doesn’t really tell me much.”

“Takashima didn’t…?” Shiroyama looked puzzled at the lack of recognition. “But it was me. Why wouldn’t he tell you my name…” Takanori could only stare in open confusion. “It was me, two years ago,” Shiroyama said, eyes turned low in shame. “I was the one who found him.”


	29. Chapter 29

The music was quieter now. Whatever commotion Kouyou had caused, nobody seemed to remember it, or at least nobody cared anymore judging by how calm the atmosphere in the club had become by the time they returned from the bathroom. Shiroyama was quiet too, staring into space as the bartender poured out his order, pushing a tall glass of beer in front of him. If she was annoyed about the ruckus earlier, she didn’t show it. It wasn’t the kind of place to bear a grudge.

Takanori had given the man plenty time to collect himself, but he was starting to get impatient, watching Shiroyama slowly lift the glass to his lips, gaze fixed at nothing in particular. It reminded him all too much of how Kouyou had been lately, when he was mulling over things he refused to talk about, drinking through the night. It was a depressing sight. Watching this guy down his beer was similarly depressing; what didn’t help was that Shiroyama was showing the same symptoms as Kouyou, as he hadn’t elaborated or explained anything, deciding instead to leave it at that and return to the bar.

It was irritating. 

“So that’s it?” Takanori said, the annoyance clear in his voice. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

“I don’t have anything to tell you…”

Takanori rolled his eyes. “Bullshit. I’ve seen you following Kouyou around for weeks, and now he throws a drink in your face when you wrestle some creep off him, and you expect me to recognize you by _name_ when I’ve never heard of you before? That’s a lot to explain.”

Shiroyama was staring into his glass. Fucking hell, he still looked so sad. Just start talking, Takanori thought with annoyance; he kind of wanted to slap the guy, if only to snap him out of it. “Are you going to tell him if I don’t?”

“What’s to tell? That you’ve been stalking him?” Shiroyama looked ready to protest, so Takanori took it as confirmation. “Don’t worry about that, he already knows. Despite what people may think, Kouyou is not blind, you know. He notices more than you would think.”

“How are his eyes?”

“Huh?”

“His eyes, are they… did they heal? So he’s no longer blind?”

“He used to be?”

Shiroyama said nothing, nodding slowly to himself as if he understood something. His voice was low, cheeks slightly red from drinking. He looked particularly punchable, like he had that kind of face. Or maybe it was just the grating attitude.

“His eyes are fine. Sensitive, yeah, but he can see just fine,” Takanori muttered. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you found him?”

“Sensitive…”

“Doesn’t like the light. Answer the question, Shiroyama.”

He remained silent for a moment. “It was two years,” Shiroyama began slowly, quietly. “I was two years too late, and Takashima was right there, under my nose… I failed him.” He refused to meet his eyes. “For two years! And while I was busy fucking up, he was losing his sight, he was being—” cutting himself off, he shook his head. “Ah, what am I doing, telling you this?”

Fuck, he was slipping. “Well, you’re already gone ahead,” Takanori said. “So you might as well finish the story.”

A slow nod, and Shiroyama downed his sorrows in his glass of beer before lowering his shoulders as if defeated. “Before all of this I was the star of the department,” he drawled. “I was so good at my job, even though I was young… everyone loved me.” He sighed deeply, took another swig, draining half his glass. “Nobody respects me anymore.”

Watching this stranger drink was almost worse than seeing Kouyou do the same. At least Kouyou didn’t whine. Takanori raised an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation that failed to come. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do _anything!_ ” Shiroyama exclaimed. “That’s the problem. I didn’t know! Hirai betrayed me, he lied to me for so long, and now nobody trusts me, I almost lost my job, my reputation is in shambles, and Takashima won’t even let me _try_ set things straight…”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Takanori interrupted. “Who’s Hirai?”

Shiroyama paused, a look on his face like his brain had caught up with him, just realizing what he said. “What, I thought… you don’t—? But he… that’s confidential.”

Oh, fucking hell. “Don’t you fucking try to pull that—”

He abruptly stood up, ignoring Takanori. “I have to go,” was all he said, gesturing to the bartender. “Put it on my tab.” She was seemingly amused, watching Takanori grab for Shiroyama’s arm, holding him firmly in an attempt to stop him from going anywhere without explaining himself.

“No, don’t you dare,” he hissed. “You can’t just leave it. You have to tell me.” Shiroyama just stared at him, seemingly confused as to what to do, before prying Takanori’s hand off. “What the fuck happened? Who’s Hirai?”

“The cause of all of this,” was all Shiroyama said, voice small, almost inaudible. “Keep Takashima safe.” And with that he left Takanori by the bar, confused and frustrated.

“Annoying, isn’t he?”

Turning around, Takanori found the bartender staring at him, the look on her face amused yet sympathetic, and he sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Very.”

“You could just run after him. What’s stopping you?”

“It’d probably be pointless,” Takanori replied, sitting down in the bar stool. He felt deflated, somehow. Worn down by all this bullshit _evasion_ everyone kept up when he asked simple questions. “Nobody ever gives me any answers.”

“Sounds troubling. Need more juice?”

He was expecting her to be poking fun at him, but there was no mockery in her voice, and he paused, considering. “Actually, you know what? Get me something with alcohol in it.”

“Right up.”

 

He didn’t stay for very long. The door was still locked by the time he made it home, for which Takanori was glad. He wasn’t sure he’d be happy to be around Kouyou so soon after what had transpired at the club, and he felt the need to unwind and relax in solitude for a while. Shiroyama’s words gnawed at him, especially with how he had just run off the second he realized that Takanori didn’t know what he was talking about. Throwing himself on the bed, Takanori let out a heavy breath; he could feel it, the pleasant buzz rushing through his system, mild as it was. He hadn’t had more than a drink or two — drinking alone was boring, he was nearly broke, and he’d rather not be drunk around Kouyou. Especially considering that Kouyou probably would be wasted by the time he returned.

Assuming Kouyou was returning tonight, anyway.

He wondered where he went after leaving the club. Another bar, most likely, but then again it was Kouyou. He could have gone anywhere for whatever reason he didn’t want Takanori to know about, all prettied up, too… grunting, Takanori rolled onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow and pushing it over his head. He didn’t want to think about it.

It couldn’t be a likely scenario anyway. Kouyou would never do something like that. Right? Right. He had some semblance of standards, Takanori was sure. And he had been obviously irritated by the creep’s behavior at the club. But who’s to say that would stop Kouyou from fucking him?

God damn, this wasn’t helping. Takanori already struggled knowing that Kouyou slept with someone else on a regular basis, he didn’t need his mental list of possible fuckbuddies to include predators. Because there was no real other way of describing the guy, judging by the way he carried himself, the way he didn’t keep his hands to himself, how Shiroyama had to pry him off. Not like Shiroyama had been much help, and what he said didn’t make much sense. It was clear he craved Kouyou’s forgiveness for something, but from what Takanori could tell, it was only because he wanted to fix his own broken reputation. Whatever that was about, Takanori had no idea, what with Shiroyama having run off, and whoever the fuck Hirai was.

 _The reason for all of this_. Whatever _this_ was. _The man who killed my dog_ , maybe, despite the dog having died in a car accident. Someone to find, someone to burn, someone Kouyou wanted to get ahold of so he could… murder them? What the fuck did Hirai do to deserve that?

Yeah, Kouyou needed to be kept safe, alright. From his own stupidity. 

Shutting his eyes, Takanori rolled onto his side, curling up. He should catch some sleep, late as it was, but Shiroyama’s words still resonated in his mind. _I was the one who found him, two years ago, he’s no longer blind._ Two years, huh… that was when Kouyou started talking to his mother again, wasn’t it? 

Maybe Shiroyama was the one who convinced Kouyou to get back in touch, or something… and he had been blind at the time, apparently. How that had happened, Takanori could only guess, but if that was the case he could certainly see why Kouyou’s eyes were so sensitive. He had spent so long being blind boy, after all, being blindfolded on camera, on pictures. It must’ve been rough on him. There were sixty videos to his name. All uncredited, the artist behind them still unknown to him.

What a tragedy. And not a wink of sleep in him yet, it would seem. Despite having been out so late, and being a little tipsy, he didn’t feel tired at all. If Kouyou was there, it wouldn’t be a problem, but it was becoming hard to fall asleep in an empty bed. Getting up, Takanori looked out the windows, at the city dark outside the silent apartment through half-closed blinds. It was snowing heavily. He didn’t know how long it would be until Kouyou returned, but it would be a while until he felt like sleeping. Grabbing his laptop from where it lay discarded on the floor next to his half-empty duffel bag, he took a moment to test the doors of the closet before returning to bed; sure enough, still locked.

Opening the browser for the dark web, he readied himself. If he was going to find the video Ishida had been talking about… well, then he had better get started.

Not that the search was very successful. Takanori hadn’t expected it to be; he’d spent enough time looking in the past to know he was more likely to scar himself for life than find the one specific video he was looking for. He didn’t get to search for very long, anyway — Kouyou decided to return home about an hour in, so Takanori closed the laptop and got up to greet him. He wasn’t surprised to find Kouyou covered in snow from walking through the harsh weather, his still intact mask of makeup doing a poor job of hiding the rather obvious discontent in his expression, and what Takanori could only assume was defeat.

“How was clubbing?”

Kouyou didn’t greet him, just gave a tired look of acknowledgement before mindlessly beginning to shrug his clothes off. “Disappointing.”

“The world not everything it’s cracked up to be, huh.”

“It’s not that, Takanori,” Kouyou murmured, making his way to the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Got introduced to someone who was supposed to have information, but as it turns out they don’t know shit.” 

“So you got yourself all made up for nothing?”

Kouyou didn’t answer, his shoulders drooping, sounding tired when he said, “I’m gonna get changed.”

He shut the door, and Takanori pursed his lips in thought. The creep knew nothing of value. So they would most likely not be meeting up again? That was a comfort. He waited for a few minutes as Kouyou got ready before entering; Kouyou had already gotten into bed, though he laid there with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. “You’re still wearing makeup.”

“Too tired,” Kouyou said, voice husky as he rolled over to give Takanori room.

“I could remove it for you, if you want?”

“Come here so we can go to sleep.”

“That’s a no,” Takanori chuckled. Kouyou hummed lowly, painted eyelids slipping shut as Takanori pulled his body flush against his own, feeling Kouyou relax in his arms. Kouyou was a little cold still, and his hair was wet in places where snow had melted, but he was comfortable, familiar. Perhaps he could finally get some sleep now, Takanori thought, reaching up to tangle a hand in Kouyou’s soft hair.

Kouyou shifted. Rolling over, he buried his face in Takanori’s chest, curling up tightly. “You smell like drinking,” he murmured.

“And yet you don’t, somehow.”

“Hey, I’m not drunk. I barely had anything to drink tonight… but you went out.”

“Wonder who’s to blame for that.” 

“So what did the nightlife taste like?”

“Citrusy.”

There was a soft chuckle, no more than a breath against Takanori’s worn sleepshirt. “I’m proud of you, Taka.”

 

Come morning, Kouyou was the first to get up for once, disappearing into the bathroom to take a shower. When Takanori made it out out of bed he found Kouyou in the kitchen with his usual morning tea, sunglasses and a smile on his face. They had a breakfast consisting of whatever in the fridge was still edible, and it felt so normal, just the two of them enjoying each other’s company as friends and roommates as if everything was as fine now as it had been months ago. The only reminder that something had changed was Kouyou’s bruised cheek and the bad dreams the night had at some point brought, leading to a quick fuck in the dark. 

Yeah. Those things aside, everything was practically normal again. It was nearly comforting, basking in Kouyou’s joyful facade that did a stellar job of hiding whatever was going on in his head, and all it had taken to snap him out of his prissy state was Takanori getting out of the house to go drinking. Alone. Elsewhere from where Kouyou had gone.

It was becoming obvious Takanori hadn’t been caught. Kouyou had been too preoccupied with his buddies, with the creep, and with throwing drinks in Shiroyama’s face to notice his roommate sitting at the bar… 

The phone was ringing again. “You know, this is starting to get ridiculous,” Takanori said, seeing Kai’s name flashing on the tiny screen for the brief moment before Kouyou grabbed it. “Does this guy ever leave you alone?” 

Kouyou grimaced; he almost looked like he considered picking up this time. “Not anymore,” he said after a moment, declining the call. 

“What’s even his problem?”

There was a moment of silence before Kouyou said anything. “He wants me to do something for him,” he shrugged. “But I refused, so now he’s pissed and keeps nagging at me to do it anyway…”

Huh. “Do what?”

Another shrug. “It’s— just a job. He’s the one who’s been offering me some work here and there… it’s nice to have some money aside from what my parents send me, so I usually do what he wants, but this is…” biting his lip, Kouyou took a second to think. “I’d have to… go live somewhere else. I don’t want to.”

The hesitation spoke volumes. “Moving away for a job, I see…” Takanori hummed, noting the thoughtful look in Kouyou’s eyes. “But what about your sense of adventure? I thought you liked to have some excitement in life?”

“Excitement is one thing,” Kouyou said, brushing his long hair to the side. “It’s a different matter if it means making you homeless, Taka.”

“I couldn’t come with you?”

“No.” 

“Damn.” It was just a _job_. It meant nothing. Not to mention it was one Kouyou was turning down… “Well, that would suck for me. I guess it’s a good thing you’re refusing, even if he’s acting like a brat... sure you’re okay with missing out on the money?” he mused, failing to stop his mind from wandering. “Do your parents really give you enough for you to keep this up? I mean, don’t you need to pay off your—”

“I can handle that. It won’t be a problem,” Kouyou interrupted, laughter in his voice as he leaned against Takanori’s shoulder. “I chose well, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Takanori said, looking away from the healing bruises on the exposed neck, from Kai’s hickeys, the half-truth. “Yeah, you sure did.” 

 

Their day was nice, really. After a few hours of lazing about Kouyou decided he needed caffeine, and so they headed to Kato’s for lunch for their usual orders of overpriced coffee, after which they went grocery shopping as the fridge had become remarkably empty. Shiroyama did not show himself, Takanori noted. He had kept an eye out, just in case, not that he’d really expected to see the man again so soon… but Kouyou seemed happy; the bruise was neatly covered up, sunglasses sheltering his eyes from the blinding winter — he was beautiful like this, in the white light of a strangely sunny day, hair that had been tucked into his scarf now flowing free in the cold wind.

“Weather sure is great today,” Takanori commented idly where they stood by Kouyou’s apartment complex, sharing a cigarette before going inside. Kouyou nodded, rubbing warmth back into his hands after passing the smoke over. Standing leant against his building, he kept his eyes lowered behind the lenses, expression blank, unreadable. There was something on his mind, Takanori could tell, so when the question came he wasn’t really surprised. 

“Hey Taka, you ever thought about having a family?” 

Kouyou had a tendency to ask seemingly random questions out of the blue, after all. “Not really,” he shrugged, blowing white smoke into the cold air. “We’re too young to be thinking about shit like that.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A soft hum, like he was trying to gather words but couldn’t figure out how to say them, and the cigarette was passed back. He pressed it to his lips, tasting tobacco and minty ash. “Do you ever miss your parents?”

“Sometimes.” Takanori paused, giving Kouyou a long, examining look. “Are you considering taking the job?”

“No,” came the immediate reply. “No. Don’t worry about that, I won’t. I’m just thinking.”

“About? What’s brought this on?”

“... someone I know, his wife is pregnant.”

“Well, that’s great for him.”

“He doesn’t think the baby is his.”

Takanori took a moment to examine Kouyou, looking for anything that could betray that smoothly stoic facade; he found nothing. “... so she’s cheating on him? What’s this got to do with my parents?”

“Nothing. Nothing, of course,” Kouyou said, dropping the remains of the cigarette to the snowy ground. “But it’s made me think, lately, about families. About bonds.” He reached to grab the grocery bag from where it sat by his feet. “About how fragile they are.”

“Tell me about it,” Takanori muttered, following Kouyou inside the building. “I think if anyone knows anything about that sort of shit, it’s us.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was talking more about their families or their own relationship. He wasn’t sure of anything, but Kouyou didn’t say anything further on the topic, leaving it for Takanori to mull over as he usually did, going back to his usual smiling self... but it was true. Their relationship, too, was a fragile thing. It could fall apart any day, just like Kouyou had the previous night when he woke shaking from his sleep and practically begging Takanori for a fuck, like so many nights before. They never talked about it, of course. It was another thing never to bring up. 

But Kouyou was — or had been — an adult actor. Blind boy. Just a _job_. Takanori closed his eyes, stretching out on the empty bed. He had to stop. It didn’t matter how much thinking he did, he’d never find out, never get to know anything… about everything from the burned picture in the wooden box, the videos from before the blindfold, before he was _blind_ … the guitar in the closet that for some reason was always kept locked.

But Kouyou had left. He had gathered his things and taken his leave for the evening, heading out for what Takanori had understood to be his biweekly visit to Akira’s place… that was one thing he knew for sure by now. When Akira had no time to spare for Takanori on Fridays, it was because he’d rather spend it with Kouyou. It was a nice enough thought, that Akira wanting to hang out with his longtime friend when he had the time, even if Kouyou intentionally kept him out of the loop, just like he did to Takanori.

It was kind of funny to think of, in a sense, because Akira was nowhere near a pushover as far as Takanori knew; it would be so easy for him to just demand Kouyou stop fucking around, but he didn’t. He was probably scared. Kouyou could very well end their relationship right then and there, even if they had been together at least since high school… he had done the same to Midori. Kouyou valued secrecy over his friends, so Takanori wouldn’t be surprised if even Akira were to suffer that fate.

Takanori sighed. Reaching for the laptop that lay abandoned on the nightstand, he fully intended to make use of his time alone to continue his search, but once he had the computer on his lap, what little motivation had been there ebbed out of him. What would he find if not just more shady shit, plenty of which would probably land him in jail if anyone were to find out? Would it really be worth going through all of that just to find one video that probably wasn’t even that interesting? 

The first one, after all, had been so… _nothing_. Sure, it was Kouyou — a younger version of him, from years ago, when his eyes weren’t blinded and his hair had been dyed a dark blue — but he just sat there, looking upset, looking angry. The dude filming couldn’t even focus the lens right. It had been complete and utter amateur work, and only about a minute long. The second video would probably be the same boring, confusing nothing as well. But still, he was curious… it was tempting to get that file and see for himself. Maybe he would be pleasantly surprised. 

But no. Takanori knew what the price would be, and Kouyou didn’t deserve that. Not to mention it would be a shit deal — potentially losing blind boy, Kouyou, a friendship… a _lover_ , in exchange for a video that could very well be only a few minutes long? As if. But he could only sit there staring at the wall for so long. Putting the laptop away, he stood up, intending to go watch some TV, idly testing the door of the closet on his way to the living room. It opened.

He froze.

 _Is this really happening?_ Takanori had to ask himself, holding his breath as if he was afraid it would lock itself should he move. Carefully he pulled at the handle again; sure enough, it offered no resistance. Well, damn. It had been months since last time Kouyou had been careless enough to leave the doors unlocked, and back then they weren’t living together. Slowly he opened the closet halfway; it creaked loudly, and he stilled. Was Kouyou really scatterbrained enough to forget to lock it after all this time? Had he purposefully left it unlocked for him to find, so he could catch Takanori in the act? Did he know about Takanori’s prying? It wasn’t impossible… he was careful, yes, but Kouyou was more observant than anyone gave him credit for. Leaving the bedroom, Takanori went out, staring out into the hallway of their apartment, just in case. No Kouyou in sight, and it was dead quiet. He must’ve just forgotten, Takanori concluded, deciding to bite the bullet.

And there it was, that gorgeous blue guitar, smooth and covered in the finest layer of dust. Unable to help himself, he lifted it out of its stand, running fingers over the strings. Takanori had tried the guitar a few times, back in his old band, as their guitarist hadn’t really given a shit. But they had been amateurs. Kouyou, as Akira had told him, had been determined to make it as a musician. It was reflected in his instrument; the guitar looked rather professional and had a good weight to it, and it appeared to be well taken care of, aside from the dust. Setting the guitar back where he’d found it, Takanori took a look at the music collection; Midori’s gift was still giftwrapped, but now it was sorted amongst the other CDs. It looked a little funny, really, with the torn paper covering it. Takanori hummed, losing interest. Music was well and good, but he had seen it all already… what else did Kouyou keep hidden away? He hadn’t really dared to look the last time, with Kouyou right there in the other room, but now he was out, so Takanori had hours to pry. Conscience be damned.

On the middle shelf there were a couple cardboard boxes, and some clothes neatly hung from coat hangers up top. That had all been there last time, he recalled, but at the time it hadn’t been anywhere as interesting as the music. Grabbing some of the clothes, he looked them over. They were nothing special, rather large and plain, and didn’t really seem like Kouyou’s style. One jacket was downright ugly. Why Kouyou kept it, Takanori didn’t know. He didn’t really want to know. Not that he trusted Kouyou to have a fantastic sense of fashion, but this jacket was bulky and oversized…. whatever. Losing interest, Takanori turned his attention to one of the boxes instead, lifting it and setting it on the floor so he could take a closer look without the clothes getting in the way. Curious, he took the lid off.

 _Now we’re getting somewhere_ , Takanori thought. He held up the first article of clothing to inspect — a long, white cardigan. It was nice. Far from his own style, but nice… a bit girly, though. He didn’t know Kouyou to wear that kind of stuff. But as he dug further, Takanori only found similar clothes. What exactly was he looking at here? Did these clothes belong to Midori? They didn’t look like something she would wear. Her style was more like Takanori’s own, from what he recalled… and this seemed a bit big for a girl.

Feeling a smidge weirded out, he stood up, getting the second box, taking notice of how much lighter it was. This couldn’t be Kouyou’s clothing, could it? No way… but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense in his head, because the clothes definitely looked close to his size. Then why the hell would he own this, he wondered, opening the second box to reveal a pair of tiny shorts. It gave him pause. Had Kouyou ever… Takanori thought back, letting his hands play with the piercings in his ears rather than rummaging further. Sure, he’d seen Kouyou in shorts before. Blind boy had worn them a few times.

“What the fuck...”

Takanori wasn’t sure how to feel when he found the skirt. It was short, black, and pleated, probably reaching about halfway down Kouyou’s thigh, if that. Although part of him was definitely intrigued with the thought of Kouyou wearing all this, Takanori couldn’t help but feel… displeased, though he wasn’t sure why. Fittingly, he found stockings next. Thigh highs. Soft, black, and apparently very well used; they had tears in places. There was another pair of shorts, a different skirt — this one long and with a slit running far up the side. More stockings, collars, a garter belt.

It was like picking clothing for blind boy. And how could he forget _that_ video? It had been the first time he’d seen the man with the scribbled out face, in the one with the wine, with the biting. Kouyou had been all dressed up in that one… tiny shorts and garters, lacy thigh highs. Takanori had watched it more times than he could count. It had been his favourite for a long while. 

Did Kouyou keep his outfits from the shoots? Unless these were things he’d gotten himself, clothes that were in… use. He already knew the answer. Kouyou would often visit the closet before going out, stuffing things into his bag to bring to places Takanori didn’t follow, to people he didn’t see, to _Kai_ , who was always calling, texting, begging Kouyou to come over. And it was oh so easy to imagine Kouyou dressing up all pretty to please the man… Takanori wasn’t even realizing how hard he was clutching the skirt in his hand, fabric wrinkling with the force. Did they tape it, when he was there? After they had dolled Kouyou up in girly clothes and makeup, did they film the fucking? Was it just a _job?_

Those weren’t tears burning in his eyes. He had no reason to cry. He’d already known; there was no reason to get upset… but he couldn’t explain why he felt so _angry_ with what he had found. Letting go of the skirt, Takanori reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

Ishida was gonna _love_ this.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few words –
> 
> I'd like to thank to everyone who's been reading this fic, especially those who have been leaving kudos and comments! I love you all.
> 
> also: I know I said a while back that this would probably end up being around 30 chapters long... but now we've reached chapter 30 and still no end in sight. my new estimation is around 40 chapters.

Thirty was a nice number. Not as nice as sixty, of course, but it was still round, whole, complete. Ishida had been quick to reply; he had been exhilarated, excited with the mental image of Kouyou dressed up in the clothes Takanori had found in the closet… it wasn’t hard to imagine, considering blind boy had been dressed similarly in some videos. And Ishida had likely been watching them religiously for years now. Takanori supposed he couldn’t really complain. It had been enough for his former colleague to give in and finally send that last file over, the last piece of Ishida’s collection, not counting the video he was looking for himself, of course. But then again, that one didn’t really count.

 _This is the last one they made_ , Ishida had told him in the email containing the file.

Staring at his now mostly complete file folder, Takanori found himself hesitating. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to watch it; at least, not yet. It was the last one, after all… would he ever get to see the rest of the collection, the ones Ishida never got his hands on? He paused, cursor hovering over the thumbnail of the new file. It was a lot more recent than Takanori had expected. The videos he had received lately had all appeared to be a few years older, and Kouyou had seemed younger in them. This one was the most recent of them all, judging by the file name. Interesting. He studied the thumbnail for a moment; there wasn’t much to look at, but it was clear what was pictured. A blurry shot of a man in a suit standing against a plain grey backdrop. Surprisingly conventional, that one, but he hadn’t seen the video yet.

Maybe he should ask for that old video… he just wanted to know what it was, he didn’t need to actually see it. And he knew Ishida had to be keeping his phone close at the moment, after all the pictures he had sent just a while ago. Ishida was probably still staring at them, at the clothes laid out on the floor or held up to show. Takanori had put them back, of course, tucking them carefully back into their respective boxes and returned to the closet where he had first found them. He began to type the words out slowly, taking a moment to stare at what he’d written… before deleting the unsent text and throwing the phone away on the mattress. No. Ishida wanted one thing, and one thing only. Takanori was curious, sure, but what was the point if it wouldn’t go anywhere? Nobody ever answered his questions.

Besides, he had a video to watch.

It started out empty. A grey wall, a harsh light; simple lamps hung low in an otherwise empty room where a man stood, dressed in a neat suit. He tapped his dress shoe against the black tile floor, the sound of it echoing around the room. Tap, tap, tap. 

“It’s time,” he said, voice deep and distorted, eerie like the complete blackness that was his face. It was the same man again — the one with the scribbled face, but this time it was a full black void, like thick brush strokes of paint or ink. Takanori had never heard him speak before; that was interesting. The tapping continued. Tap, tap, tap. The man reached forwards, grabbing a hanging lamp, turning it in his hands, aiming the light in seemingly random directions, as if testing it. “It’s time,” he repeated, letting the lamp go. It swung gently side to side, and he stilled, stopping the noisy tapping. Gentle footfalls replaced it.

“It’s time.” 

This voice was softer. Deeper, and almost meek in comparison; it was blind boy. Takanori held his breath, unable to look away when Kouyou finally entered, because his hair was so _long_. It spilled far down his back, curling softly at the edges, extensions worked carefully into his own natural hair. He was dressed in all black, an oddly layered yet elegant dress-like outfit that left his shoulders bare and thighs exposed, the only visible slivers of skin.

They were face to face, Kouyou’s blindfold matching the blackness of the man’s blanked out features. Behind them, the lamp swung side to side, like the ticking of a clock. The man nodded; “It’s time,” he repeated, taking blind boy’s head in his hands, running scarred fingers almost gently across Kouyou’s skin, his jaw, his cheeks, following his nose up to where his eyes would be beneath the blindfold. Grabbing the hair he pulled blind boy’s head back, exposing the neck. “It is good that you came.”

“Yes,” blind boy whispered, “it is.”

Takanori watched as the man slowly ran his hands across blind boy’s form, pulling off layer upon layer of clothing, letting it fall away. When he touched his hands to his own face, they came away covered in black. “You have been good,” the man said. “You have been the best.” Blind boy did not reply, merely standing there, leaning against the touch, black ink smearing where hands would slide across skin that was gradually being revealed. 

He didn’t say a word, blindly reaching a hand towards the man’s face only to be stopped, wrists grasped and gloves pulled from his pale hands. “The best,” he murmured. The man let go, and Kouyou rested his slender hands on the collar of the suit, around the man’s neck, behind the ears. They stained black, ink colouring his fingertips. “I have been the best.” His voice sounded strained.

It was a surreal experience. The two of them, standing in a grey room, dressed monochrome and bleeding black all over each other; he wasn’t sure if he liked what he was looking at, but Takanori still couldn’t tear his eyes away. Especially not with Kouyou looking like that… his hair touched the floor when the man finally pushed blind boy to kneel on the ground, stained hands tangling in the long locks, mattering it as blind boy reached for the fly of his pants. He got to work quickly; Takanori had seen it many times before, how he parted his lips for that massive cock, almost effortlessly taking it into his mouth. Takanori groaned at the sight, palming himself through his jeans.

The hand in the hair tightened sharply; he could see blind boy attempt to gasp around the organ, hands clutching the man’s thighs in protest as he was pressed flush against the crotch, cock pushed further down his bulging throat. “Do as we asked,” the man’s distorted voice commanded. “Do as we’ve told.” And blind boy obliged, letting go of the man’s leg to lock a hand firmly around his own throat as if choking himself. _What is he doing?_

The strokes came slowly, at first; tightly, but carefully blind boy ran the hand up and down his throat, over the bulge of the faceless man’s cock. It rewarded him a grunt, heavily computerized, before the man started moving, thrusting almost lazily along with the strokes. All the while, the hand in the hair remained. Takanori bit his lip, watching the screen intently. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, and he sure as hell had never seen anything like this… though for how confused he was, he was becoming mindlessly turned on. Did Kouyou even have a gag reflex?

Clearly not. His strokes were coming faster, the man thrusting harder; it barely looked like he could breathe like that, the dick and his own hand both cutting off his air supply. He was rubbing his throat almost violently when the man pulled his head back, and blind boy immediately stopped, hand hovering uselessly in the air as the man pulled out. He gasped for breath, swollen lips open, coated in saliva and precome, thick strings of spit dripping to the floor.

“Good,” the faceless man said. “Again.”

And so it continued. It lasted longer, this time, to the point that blind boy began to run out of air, his strokes stopping entirely, yet he did nothing to push the man away… the man, displeased, pulled his head back again, erection sliding out from Kouyou’s mouth to allow a moment to breathe — before reaching down to roughly tear the blindfold from his face. 

Takanori froze; that hadn’t happened since — well, since the first video he had seen… the camera refused to show blind boy’s eyes, of course, the slightly altered angle along with the hair hiding them from view as the man pulled blind boy back to his feet, grabbing the still swinging lamp, aiming the light into open eyes Takanori couldn’t see. There was no sound but for the now frequent tapping noise that seemed to come from nowhere. Kouyou had stilled completely, lips still open and gaping… Takanori could see the long eyelashes fluttering, lids fighting to stay open despite the sharp light. 

Why wasn’t he looking away? Why did he refuse to close his eyes? He kept it up until the man finally seemed satisfied with his punishment and let go, letting blind boy fall face down to the ground like a limp doll.

“Don’t be a bad boy.”

There was a soft thump as the man’s knees hit the tiles, reaching for blind boy with black hands and propping his hips up. Blind boy moaned weakly, allowing his underwear to be grabbed and torn from beneath the skirt he was wearing, before he was pulled into position, erection lined up for the man to easily push himself inside — yet, he waited, running a hand across blind boy’s shoulder blades, leaving a smear of black as he went. The same thick black liquid was covering the man’s cock, staining half the shaft, dripping slowly from the tip, disgusting, Takanori thought, a vague taste of nausea building up in his mouth despite his own arousal. The lamp had gone back to swinging again, its light bathing them in a blindingly white flash every few seconds.

“Don’t be bad…” the man’s digital voice stuttered out as he brushed the long hair aside, letting it spill over Kouyou’s shoulder and to the floor. Leaning forward he kissed his neck, leaving blots of ink in his wake, before finally thrusting in sharply; “Don’t be bad,” the man repeated, again and again, with every thrust. “Don’t be…”

Takanori could barely allow himself to breathe. It was _nightmarish._

“... a bad boy.”

It didn’t last for much longer than that. The lights blinked out, and when they returned, blind boy was alone on the floor. All clothing was gone from his body and his form was coated in the man’s leavings, both semen and ink. In place of the blindfold, hair covered the upper half of his face, spilling out seemingly endlessly across the tiled floor. The only part of his face that was visible were his swollen lips. He gasped out quietly, thin chest moving weakly as he drew a breath. He seemed a broken mess, raw and ruined. Debauched. _Violated_. And the video was fading to black, the telltale sign that it was coming to an abrupt end—

 _“You have been good, blind boy,”_ a disembodied voice sounded, thick with distortion but different from what faceless man’s had been. _“You have been the best.”_

Only a few seconds left. Kouyou slowly reached a hand to brush the hair out of his face, and then it was all too dark for Takanori to see anymore. It ended. It was over. And it was the last video. Takanori wasn’t sure why he felt so uncomfortable. He had seen Kouyou in so many situations, some bordering on violence, others heading straight into disturbing territory — so in that regard, it was far from the worst thing he’d watched since Ishida started sending him videos… but he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the ink. The oppressive atmosphere. The fact that the man whose face had always been scribbled over before was now painted to be all black, the fact that he had spoken.

“It’s time…” he murmured to himself, repeating the words. Time for what, he wondered. The end, maybe. _The best._ Maybe it was a good idea to ask Ishida after all… if there was some deeper meaning behind what he’d just watched, then Ishida probably knew it. But the phone felt heavy in his hand, words struggling to come to him. Was he going to allow himself to sink so deeply as to ask Ishida to explain the meaning regarding an erotic video? 

_Not like you’re not already on his level_. He frowned. Shrugging off the intrusive thoughts, Takanori set his jaw, beginning to type in the message. Whatever; it was just a question. Once sent, he settled to wait, looking through random frames of the video. He’d yet to draw anything — but he would, at some point, that was for sure. The faceless man, the swinging lamp, ink dripping, smearing across bare skin. Kouyou jerking off the bulge of a cock deep in his throat. Strangely, he felt no desire to play the video again. It was probably just because he didn’t get it, at least not yet. Though it was definitely worth watching the part where Kouyou took the man into his mouth… 

His phone rang. Staring blankly at Ishida’s name, Takanori paused; well, _that_ was new. Ishida had never called him before. Takanori had never wanted him to, for that matter, in fact had hoped it was something that would never come to pass; mailing had been more than enough, back when they were still colleagues, and at then when Ishida did somehow get hold of his number, he had never actually made an attempt to call, for which Takanori had been grateful. 

But now, it seemed he wanted to talk. Takanori pressed his lips together in hesitation, before picking up.

“Ishida?” he tried, almost expecting it to be someone else on the line. But there was no mistaking the eager voice that greeted him; it had been ages since they actually physically talked, sure, but that didn’t mean Takanori was one to easily forget.

 _”Matsumoto, hello_ ,” Ishida greeted. _“I wanted to— I wanted to thank you myself. For showing me what you found.”_

“There’s no need,” Takanori muttered. “You made it clear enough that you were happy with what I sent you.”

_“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to thank you more— personally! When’s the last time I saw you? That we talked?”_

“That would be before you quit.”

 _“Yes,”_ Ishida agreed, probably nodding enthusiastically if Takanori knew him right. _“That would be it. Anyway I— you know why it took so much before I would send you this video now, yeah?”_

“Actually no, I don’t, Ishida. That’s kind of why I asked you to explain it.”

 _“What’s to explain?”_ He genuinely sounded puzzled. _“Can’t you tell?”_

Takanori huffed in annoyance. “Tell _what_ , exactly?”

 _“That it’s him!”_ Ishida exclaimed, disbelief in his voice. _“It’s him, at the end! The artist!”_

“... the one talking? That’s who made these videos?”

 _“Yes!”_ It took a moment before Ishida seemed to calm down, his tone taking on an almost dreamy quality. _“It’s been so long, I was so excited to share it with you… even if it was the last one. And again, thank you, Matsumoto. I’ll never forget those… have you seen him wearing them?”_

“I haven’t,” Takanori said. “It’s probably going to say that way.”

 _“You could convince him to put them on, couldn’t you? No? Too bad…”_ Ishida trailed off, and there was a moment of quiet before he seemed to recall something. _“Hey, Matsumoto. We’re done, aren’t we?”_

“Yeah, we are.”

_“But… I still have those videos left. You know. The older ones.”_

“You mean the shit ones?” Takanori scoffed. “Because I found one of them, you know. It was garbage.”

_“Oh, you found the first one? The second is way better.”_

“Yeah?”

_“About half an hour long… there is… a lot of action. Doesn’t have the same quality as the artist, but cut the guy some slack, it’s still a good watch.”_

“I’ll keep it in mind when I go searching for it.”

_“Good luck. It was taken down.”_

“Was it?”

_“Yes. So you can’t get hold of it on the web anymore… you’ll need to contact someone who has it.”_

“And you’ll want something in return, I imagine.”

_“You already know what I want.”_

He frowned at the blatant reminder. “Yeah,” Takanori muttered. “Yeah, I know.”

_“So what do you say?”_

“Answer’s still no.”

 _“Still?”_ Ishida made a displeased whining sound on the other end. _“But why?”_

“Because no video is worth that much, Ishida.”

_“I just want to— meet him! Just arrange it and the video will be yours, I just want to—”_

“You don’t want to just meet him, Ishida, you want me to set him up with you,” Takanori said slowly, deliberately, as if he were explaining to something a child; “You want me to _sell_ him to you. It’s not gonna happen.”

There was a strangled growl of frustration, the most aggressive noise he’d ever heard from Ishida. _“Why can’t you just say yes?”_

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

_“It’s not stupid! I just want to be with him, just once, it’s not that big a deal, Matsumoto!”_

“That’s only because you see him as something to stick your dick in, _Ishida_ ,” Takanori all but snarled. _Because you don’t see Kouyou when he’s himself, when he’s happy and safe, you don’t know him, you don’t love him, not like I do._ He could have said it, but he didn’t. And not just because he knew it would make him a hypocrite.

He could hear the beginning of Ishida’s long-winded, hopelessly desperate reply, but didn’t stick around for it, pulling the phone from his ear and hanging up. Fucking hell. It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t even gotten to ask his original question. Then again, what was the point? Ishida already knew what he was asking when he picked up the phone, but refrained from replying. Maybe he didn’t know himself.

But to know that the man behind all these videos was the one talking in the end of that one… now _that_ was interesting.

In his hands, the phone began to ring again, Ishida’s name flashing on the tiny monitor. Takanori frowned, then declined the call, opening the contacts app. 

_Block number._

After all, if Ishida was only going to be an annoyance and a liability… then there was no point in staying in touch with him. He considered blocking Ishida’s mail as well — sure, it would be bothersome, as Ishida could be insufferable no matter what platform he used, but Takanori could just ignore it. Phonecalls throughout the day were not as easily disregarded, as he and Kouyou were both well aware. He’d rather not deal with the inevitable questions.

 _So that’s it? I’m just going to block him and never talk to him again?_ But really, the question became _and why not?_ Ishida didn’t deserve that kind of encouragement, and now that he had sent everything he was willing to share — at least for free — he had nothing left to give. Takanori had been planning to cut all ties by the time they were done, anyway. And it was fine; it wasn’t like Ishida knew where they lived. He couldn’t find them and demand more — he could try going to the store, but he would only find Takanori to be long gone. Takanori hadn’t told him anything that could point him in Kouyou’s direction, sent no photos of his face without the glasses, given away no obvious locations, and he had never mentioned Kouyou’s name. They were safe from him, because as far as Ishida was concerned, Kouyou was just blind boy, a sightless, anonymous fuckdoll that he just so happened to have seen in person.

Yeah. Cutting him out of his life was definitely the best decision. 

Takanori glanced back to the video, still open on his monitor. The man’s scarred hand had buried itself in Kouyou’s thick, long hair, Kouyou’s mouth opening wide to allow for the sheer size of the cock… he bit his lip as he felt himself twitch, erection reminding him that it was still very much there. Right. He pressed play, running a hand against the bulge, biting back the moan.

The discomfort returned quickly enough, and despite feeling slightly squeamish he still continued watching, pants pulled down to allow himself to wrap a hand around his own dick, stroking himself. The man on screen pushed Kouyou down on all fours, large cock dripping black to the floor, onto blind boy’s ass, and it was so _gross_ , but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop himself from jerking harder, faster, when the man thrust inside and began to fuck Kouyou roughly against the tiled floor. He knew this man’s style well enough by now, his character; he was dominant and rough, and seemed to love pushing Kouyou’s face onto the mattress, the table, the floor, whatever surface they found themselves fucking on.

Closing his eyes, Takanori shut out the rest of the video, tilting his head back as he felt himself getting close. Ignoring Kouyou’s muffled wails, he found his mind drifting, because what if instead of the faceless man, it was _him_ on top, dominant and powerful — what if Takanori was the one in charge, the one to press Kouyou down to his knees so he could take his cock into that skilled mouth, and then down on all fours… _fuck_. That was it. The building heat was enveloping him, quickly, and he couldn’t hold back the moan as he came, falling limply back on the bed, catching his breath.

Kouyou was always the one in charge when they fucked. It wasn’t a bad thing; he just wished it was different. That he could have control for once. He should consider himself lucky — in the beginning he couldn’t even do so much as touch, Kouyou being completely and utterly in charge of the situation. Nowadays Takanori could put his hands where he wanted, so long as he didn’t touch above the waist, beneath the shirt Kouyou would always be wearing… blind boy had still been wearing the dress when the fucking started, sort of. Even if he had been stripped completely by the end… 

Looking to the side, Takanori found the video had ended, nothing but blackness greeting him on the screen. Not unlike the not-face of the man in the suit, the ink he had spilled all over himself, over Kouyou… inside of him, even. Sitting up, Takanori closed the video player, looking through his folder and finding a particular file. Pressing play, he watched as Kouyou laughed, struggled, and wore himself out before his teeth finally sank into those fingers, the man’s blood running down his lips, his chin, his skinny chest. Takanori was back to stroking himself by the time the man with the scribbled out face pushed Kouyou forward to his hands and knees; god, he still loved that one.

It took a long time for him to come back down from that second high, and he only left the bedroom to get himself cleaned up, returning with the intention to find his art supplies and get sketching while he still had the time. But as he was scrolling through the folder for the last video again, he couldn’t help but glance at the old one from the deep web, and he found himself thinking back to what Ishida had said. The other one got taken down… but it was much longer. The thought of getting to see more of Kouyou from back then was interesting, to say the least. He could do it. Maybe if he didn’t start from scratch and just went back to where he’d found the file originally. 

Stupid how he hadn’t thought of it before, really; it worked. It took two hours to track it down, once Takanori remembered what forum he’d found the first video at, what keywords to use, how long ago it had been posted — as well as a slight detour to check his email and delete all of Ishida’s whining — but… 

_This file has been removed and is no longer accessible._

Well, damn. Seemed Ishida had been telling the truth. But maybe someone had reuploaded it? All he had to do was to look around, and if he was lucky, he could find it—

He paused. Was that noise… glancing at the time, Takanori cautiously stood up. It was nearly midnight. He wasn’t really expecting Kouyou to come back before morning, so why was there someone at the door? Had he returned early only to realize he had lost his keys, or something? Was it Midori? Well, probably not, especially not at this hour. Takanori hadn’t even seen her since she left for school, way back. It was probably Kouyou, he decided. It had to be.

But it was not Kouyou he saw when he slowly pulled open the door to see. The man outside the apartment looked unassuming enough, casually dressed, his features somewhat plain, the faint beginning of wrinkles around his eyes betraying his age. He looked to be in his mid-thirties or so, Takanori thought.

“Hello,” the man said, giving a friendly smile. “Sorry to disturb so late, but it’s important. Is Takashima home?”

“Uh… no, he’s not,” Takanori said, realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t be telling the truth to a complete stranger that decided to come knocking at midnight. “Sorry.” But just as he was shutting the door, the man slipped an arm through the crack. “Hey, what the hell?”

“Give me a second before I go, may I ask you a question?” the man said, not leaving time for Takanori to reply. “Who are you? I was under the impression Takashima was living alone, so I’m a little surprised to find a stranger greeting me.”

“Name’s Matsumoto, I’m his roommate,” Takanori grumbled, annoyed. “He’s not here, so I can’t help you. Can you come back tomorrow or something? It’s really late…” The gaze going up and down his frame was scrutinizing; he shifted his weight, trying to disguise the growing nervousness as impatience.

“A roommate? That’s very interesting,” the man said. His hand was not leaving the door; if anything, he was pushing it further open, a look of something — spiteful, almost, in his eyes. “You’re not what I expected, Matsumoto… but I suppose it makes sense. Of course he would go for someone small and harmless.” Takanori didn’t get the chance to ask what the fuck he was on about before the door was being pried wide open, and the stranger was pushing him back into the apartment as he made his way inside. 

“Hey!” Takanori exclaimed, trying and failing to push the stranger back. “What the fuck, you can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” the man said calmly, shoving his fighting hands away with ease. “I’ve been dying to meet you, Matsumoto. My name is Kai. We need to talk.”

The door fell shut; Takanori took a step backwards as the stranger — as _Kai_ closed in on him. 

Fuck.


	31. Chapter 31

“You look troubled.”

“No shit I look fucking _troubled_ ,” Takanori growled, keeping his eyes trained on the man’s — on Kai’s. “Some stranger show up at my door at midnight, saying he wants to see Kouyou, then breaks into my house because he wants to _talk_ , to _me?_ Fuck off, and get out.” He wasn’t sure what the guy wanted from him, why he had forced his way into the apartment, but he had his suspicions.

 _Talk_ , after all, could mean so many things.

Kai clicked his tongue. “That’s quite the potty mouth you’ve got on you, Matsumoto.” He was getting way too close for comfort, and Takanori found himself getting backed up against the sofa, Kai’s eyes trained on his eyes, his lips, roaming his body as if inspecting him. “But you have a pretty mouth… I can see why he would choose you.”

“Fuck you,” Takanori snarled, giving Kai a sharp shove as he slipped away, giving himself more space. Kai only chuckled at the feeble attempt to push him away. “Get out, or I’m calling the cops.”

“Do you always swear every two words, Matsumoto?” was all Kai said, still calm, seemingly not giving a shit. “There’s no need to call for backup. I’ll take my leave once I’m finished here, and I have no intentions of harming you. I just want to talk, honest.”

“Oh yeah? Well I don’t want to!” Takanori all but shouted. “I don’t fucking want you here! Get out!”

A sigh. “Don’t force my hand, Matsumoto. I’m a man of my word, and I mean it when I say I don’t want to hurt you. But if you must, then sure. Go ahead. Call the police. See if they can get here before it’s too late for you.”

His voice was so chipper, but he seemed honest as he laid out his obvious threat — and his gaze didn’t waver from Takanori’s even for a second. Shit, Takanori thought. He was dead serious. 

“Changed your mind?” The smile was anything but reassuring. “Good.”

Takanori clenched his jaw. “So you want to talk?” he muttered. “Well, get it over with. Have your little chat, say whatever it is you want to tell me, and get out of here.” Kai nodded, seemingly approving, but before he could get a word out Takanori raised a hand accusingly. “But you keep your fucking distance.”

“No trust, I see,” Kai said, faux disappointment lacing his tone. “Too bad, but it’s understandable, considering our circumstances… you seemed to recognize the name I gave you, Matsumoto. Say, have you heard of me?”

“Heard of you? Sure I have,” Takanori grumbled. “You’re Kouyou’s _fuckbuddy_ —” he bit the word out with as much venom he could— “and you’re that asshole who hit him.”

“So he told you, did he?”

Takanori shook his head. “He didn’t tell me shit, but he didn’t need to.”

“The observant type, I see.” Kai hummed thoughtfully, looking around the small living room. “I see he’s still lacking in taste. Shame. Impressive collection, though,” he said, gesturing towards the ever-growing stack of video games. “He does spend his money wisely.”

“Is there a point to this?” Takanori interrupted. “Or are you gonna keep talking bullshit? Because if that’s all you wanted to say, you can kindly piss off.”

Kai chuckled. “The reason why I’m here, what I wanted to talk to you about…” He stepped forward slowly, ignoring Takanori’s protest. “It’s about Kouyou, as you probably can imagine. You see, we have a… deal between us. It involves him and me, and as you can imagine, there is no room for someone like _you_ in the picture.”

It was all Takanori could do to slowly back away, watching as the rage grew in Kai’s eyes. “Does this deal involve letting you fuck him?” he said, mostly to keep Kai talking, though he wasn’t really sure if he wanted to know the answer. If Kai had been lying and did intend to cause Takanori bodily harm, there was very little he could do about it, he knew. He was neither agile nor particularly quick, so fleeing would be a challenge, and his small stature didn’t allow for much physical strength. It wasn’t like he had been working out as of late. The intruder was, while not larger than average, clearly far stronger than him; no way would Takanori be able to take him on. If it came to blows, his best chance would probably involve locking himself in the bedroom, calling the cops, and praying they arrive before Kai could break the door down. 

Which according to Kai, wasn’t likely. Hopefully, if they just stuck to conversation, it wouldn’t end in violence. If Kai got his business talked out, he would just _leave._

“I had been keeping to my part of our deal perfectly all this time,” Kai continued, not bothering to answer. “But a while ago, I was rather… upset to find out that he hadn’t been doing the same. That he has been going behind my back, doing things he’s not supposed to.”

“Oh yeah?” Takanori forced out. “How’d you figure that?”

“You see, this arrangement of ours involves a few… compromises. He knows what I want, but he holds the cards. His body, his rules, yes?” Takanori nodded. “In the beginning, we set down the ground rules. I told him what I wanted, he told me what he wanted. I said I wanted him loyal. He said that was fine, so long as I never, under any circumstances, left a mark on him below the waist. That part of him was not for anyone to claim. Do you see where I’m going with this, Matsumoto?”

Of course he did. Takanori still remembered the first night he had left deep scratches on Kouyou’s thighs, hickeys of his own down his pale legs. He did it nearly every time they had sex, now. “So you found out your— whatever you two are— has been sleeping around?” Takanori said, unable to stop his growing anger from showing. He knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help it. “So fucking what? He doesn’t belong to you. Kouyou doesn’t belong to anyone, he’s not loyal. You must be really fucking naive to think you could try to _own_ him,” he spat, and Kai’s eyes narrowed.

“You don’t seem to understand what I’m saying.” Kai’s voice was severe.

“No, I understand you perfectly. You’re a jealous prick trying to tell me to back off, but guess what? Kouyou doesn’t work like that. He isn’t exclusive, despite what I— what we both probably want him to be. He’s not _mine_ , and he certainly doesn’t belong to _you._ ”

Kai’s posture was tight, obviously displeased with the way his chat was going. “This is your last warning,” he said. “What you’re doing — stop it. We had a deal, one you have no part in, and you have no idea what you’re getting yourself involved with.”

“Kouyou wasn’t kidding when he said you were an asshole,” Takanori said, refusing to give in to the man’s demands. “With how you’re treating him, I’m hardly surprised he let me do it. Do you always leave bruises all over your partners? Do you always resort to violence when you find they’ve done something you don’t like?” His voice was growing in volume, but he didn’t care; all he could think of was all those months spent watching Kouyou, mulling over the marked throat, and the sudden shift in behavior after the night Kai had struck him. His moodiness, the night terrors that had become worse than ever.

“It was part,” Kai said slowly, threateningly, “of our agreement.”

“How about you find yourself a fling that actually gives a shit about what you want, asshole, and leave us alone— what the fuck, let me go!”

“Don’t meddle in affairs that you know nothing about, _Matsumoto,_ ” Kai snarled, a scarred hand tightening in the collar of Takanori’s shirt, the other around his neck, almost to the point of lifting him off the ground. But just as quickly as the rage had taken over, it let go; letting out a heavy breath, Kai relaxed, though the grip on Takanori’s throat was still firm; his eyes were half-lidded, the anger still strong in them, but something seemed to force its way over the rage, soothing it. “Look at what you’ve made me do,” he said calmly, sounding _disappointed_ , and released Takanori, who immediately scuttled backwards until his back hit the kitchen counter. “What a shame. I do mean what I say. I didn’t want to break my promise to you.”

Takanori could barely say anything, his eyes wide, hand clutching the shirt where Kai had practically forced the air from his lungs. “What—” he coughed once, clearing his voice. “What the fuck is your problem?”

And at that, Kai laughed. “Let me tell you what my problem is, Matsumoto,” he began, leaning casually against the counter, watching with something akin to amusement as Takanori took another step backwards, pressing himself against the corner. “My problem is with more than just people like you, the ones who stick their noses and dicks into places they have no right to be.” He chuckled again, the look on his face some sort of twisted smile, like he found it funny. “No, my real issue has to do with those who break their promises, who swear to loyalty, only to go ahead and break their oath by fucking other men — it’s to do with the whores of the world, Matsumoto, the filth, the sluts that do as they please without thinking of the consequences, who sleep with strangers when they’re supposed to be loyal to their damn _husbands_ , and then go ahead and claim innocence, that they never lied, that the baby doesn’t belong to some nameless, faceless man… _that_ , Matsumoto, is my problem. You may not be the main issue, but you are still part of it.”

It was eerie, almost, how his tone sounded cheerful despite what he was saying, despite the fury residing behind the mask of an almost-but-not-quite-smile. But Takanori was still gathering his words, his breath, uncertain as to how to respond to Kai, who was standing not a meter away from him, casually propped against the counter like he belonged there, in Kouyou’s kitchen, talking about —whoring, and adultery, and— “It’s you,” Takanori wheezed out. “You’re the guy with the pregnant wife, aren’t you.”

And Kai’s grim grin widened. “So he told you, did he.”

“Kouyou hardly tells me anything. Bits and pieces. But I can—” he coughed again; fuck, that had taken a bigger toll on him than he first thought. “I can put it together. Who the fuck are you to talk about cheating like that, when you’ve been doing it yourself, huh? Fucking hypocrite, I can’t believe the shit I’m seeing.”

Kai seemed to take a moment to contemplate. “Tell me, Matsumoto,” he said after a few seconds, “have you ever loved somebody?”

“What?”

“When you’re in love, you want to protect that person with all your heart, right? You want to keep them safe and happy, even if that means you have to put them first, even if you have to ignore your own needs in order to satisfy theirs.”

“Is there a point to this, or are you just rambling again?”

“My wife is a fragile thing, Matsumoto. A harsh gust of wind could knock her over. She’s never liked anything I could offer her. She’s never _wanted_ anything, and it’s all I can do to respect that. She can’t satisfy me, but I love her, and I put her needs and desires before my own… but I am still a man, Matsumoto.” A sigh, almost melancholy. “Kouyou is the only one who can handle my needs. I’m sparing her a lot of pain this way. I’m giving her happiness.”

“That’s not—” Takanori had to stop himself from going on again, biting his tongue and carefully arranging his words. “You aren’t sparing anyone _anything_ , you goddamn— all you’re doing is making someone else suffer. Kouyou— your wife, did you even talk to her about it, or did you just assume? Did you hit her too, when you decided she was cheating?”

That made Kai pause, something passing across his features, like he was shocked by the very idea, like he hadn’t even though of it. Whether it was abuse or communication that surprised him, Takanori didn’t know. “Of course I didn’t hurt her, don’t be ridiculous. Haven’t you been listening?”

Figures. “I’ve heard plenty enough.” Takanori muttered, gritting his teeth, holding back the vile words, the crass rage. “And to me, it’s pretty obvious that they would both be better off without you.”

“You talk like you know, when you clearly don’t,” Kai said, and now the mocking tone was back in his voice. “Kouyou doesn’t mind, he never has. He hasn’t complained in all this time since our deal was made, not until you showed up. I’ve compensated him well enough.”

Whatever retort Takanori had been building up the courage to say died in his mouth, something bitter and jealous bubbling up where his rage had been. It was a stupid question, he knew.

Still, he asked it. “What do you mean, _compensation?_ ”

“So much for being able to put two and two together, huh?” Kai almost looked disappointed. Lifting a hand, he gestured to the room. “Look around you. Do you really think Kouyou can afford all this shit with the pocket money his family sends every couple weeks? Of course not. All of that comes from me.”

He wanted to say something, he really did, but he couldn’t bring himself to. All Takanori could bring himself to do was follow that large hand with his eyes, the deeply scarred fingers, because the answer had been right in front of his nose all along. It was a deal. It was just a job, and it had always been. It was compensation for Kouyou allowing this man, this unassuming but obviously powerful man to fuck him; it was money gained from sex work, it was— just a _job_ , and it always had been.

And the worst thing was, that of course Takanori had known. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did, he shouldn’t be so shocked, because all this time, he’d known. He had known long before even meeting Kouyou, had suspected it ran deeper for a long time… but still, it _hurt_ , and it had no right to hurt as much as it did.

Kai didn’t stay for much longer than that.

It was hard for Takanori to allow himself to relax afterwards, after the lengthy conversation. Once Kai was gone, Takanori locked the door and returned to the bedroom, only to be reminded of his earlier activities — the open forum, his video folder, the sketchbook, all waiting for him. It left nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth. And so he closed them all, put the laptop away and went to bed, only to find himself staring endlessly at the dark ceiling, unable to fall asleep, the room illuminated by the city lights that slipped through the half-open blinds. He couldn’t find rest, not with the myriads of thoughts swirling around in his head. It was just a job, Kouyou had said. He hadn’t been lying, not really. 

He just hadn’t been telling the whole truth.

He hadn’t bothered telling Takanori that he was prostituting himself for cash. And to _that_ man, no less, the man with no face, with the ink ever-present in his videos, scribbled over his head to obscure his features, or painted over to render him a humanoid monster dripping thick black all over Kouyou, inside and out… the man with the scarred fingers, skin having been bitten to bloody shreds. Maybe Kouyou just had been lost in the moment when he did it. Maybe it had been an attack, an attempt to gain dominance, somehow. Takanori couldn’t get it out of his head, the way the bloodied hand had wrapped around Kouyou, every part of him, leaving red, black handprints all over, the very same hands that had grabbed his shirt and found his own throat just hours ago, squeezing the breath out of him… 

Why would they go back to each other, after all of that? Why would they meet again, fuck again, why would Kouyou dress up all pretty and allow Kai to bruise his neck time and time again… but never beneath the waist, just as Takanori wasn’t permitted to touch Kouyou anywhere above it.

But with Kai, it was all just for money. All to afford his comfortable lifestyle, his alcohol and cigarettes and video games, the people paid to track down his dog’s killer. Kai had to pay extraordinarily well in order for Kouyou to afford all of that. But why bother? Why couldn’t he just find someone else to let out his frustrations on? He was clearly wealthy, so it couldn’t be hard… but no. It had to be Kouyou, and it had to be loyalty to him alone, even though Kai himself was a married man with a child on the way, a child he claimed not to be his own since his wife apparently didn’t want to sleep with him, because he feared he would _break_ her, because he was far too well endowed, because he was sadistic, because—

Curling up, Takanori clutched the pillow tighter, forcing his eyes shut. Stop thinking about it. _Sleep_. Just sleep. _Just sleep…_

Honestly, he felt disgusting. He wanted to scream, break something, cry. He wanted to find Kouyou and demand explanations for why he couldn’t come clean about all this shit, why Takanori had to find out this way, through pornography and being threatened by someone from those videos. Why he was, as Kai had said, nothing but filth; a cheating slut, a whore in the literal sense…

But Kouyou wouldn’t come clean, of course. If anything, he’d probably just abandon Takanori in the dirt, refuse to acknowledge him ever again, like the friends before him. Was that what Midori had found out? That he was selling himself to afford luxuries and a goddamn manhunt? Nothing seemed to make sense. And Takanori was too afraid of loss to try, he knew. He didn’t want to suffer that abandonment, to be thrown out again, leaving Kouyou alone in his expensive apartment paid for by regretful parents who knew nothing about what their son was doing to himself, to the people who loved him.

Maybe Kai loved him too, somehow.

Fuck, everything about the whole situation was just a mess. Rolling over, Takanori buried his face in a cool pillow, breathing in the heavy scent of Kouyou, hating himself all the more for the burning tears that built up in his eyes, overflowing and staining the pillowcase. He stayed like that seemingly for ages, until finally, consciousness slipped away.

 

Morning came late. He found himself curled up facing away from the sun, pillows and blankets sheltering him from the intrusive light, much like how Kouyou often woke to bright days. It had to be noon at the very least, Takanori thought as he sat up, blinking blearily. The spot next to him was cold; Kouyou had not returned, of course. Staying at Akira’s, he had obviously slept over, shared his bed, huddled close for warmth in Akira’s cold two-room apartment. It wasn’t jealousy returning at the thought of it, Takanori knew. Instead, he felt nothing. 

Sloppily dressed, he made his way into the living room, finding it dimly lit, blinds shut just enough for the sunlight to be comfortable. Kouyou was there, sure enough, curled up on the sofa with a book in his lap. That was new. He smiled brightly, seeing Takanori enter; the book was only a few pages in. “Good morning, Taka.”

“Hey,” Takanori could only reply coolly, staying in the doorway and watching the mirth start to die in Kouyou’s expression, and he closed the book, putting it away. 

“Slept well? How was your night?”

“I slept like shit, actually.” His voice was uncharacteristically monotonous, gaze sticking to anywhere but Kouyou’s concerned eyes, before settling somewhere to the left, on the door to the apartment where Kai had come bursting through. “We need to talk,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “There was a guy here last night, said he was looking for you.”

Kouyou perked up at that. “Who? Did he tell you his name, what he wanted? What’d he look like?”

“And when I said you were gone, he wanted to talk to me,” Takanori continued. He sniffled indignantly seeing the puzzled look on Kouyou’s face. “Told me that I was interrupting something between you two, that I should back off, that his name was _Kai_. Ring any bells?”

“... what?” Kouyou uttered the word in a shocked breath, before the realization truly hit him. “Oh, hell, he was _here?_ That fucker is gonna _pay_ ,” he all but growled, and it was strange to see such anger in him, but Takanori stayed calm, too numb from last night to truly feel any of it. Besides, he knew that Kouyou’s rage wasn’t directed at him.

Takanori watched quietly as Kouyou pulled his phone from his pants pocket, typing in a number and pressing it to his ear — if Kai wasn’t supposed to call, it was safe to assume he wasn’t supposed to come over, either. “Kouyou, why couldn’t you have told me where your money comes from?”

It gave Kouyou pause for a second, but he brushed it off. “But I did, I already told you I work for him sometimes, Taka,” was all he said. “Whatever Kai said to you, he’s lying. He’s just trying to throw you off.”

“That’s where all your hickeys come from, isn’t it? All this time, it was him.”

The phone kept ringing, remaining unanswered. “Taka… please, just ignore what he told you, alright? Whatever he said, it’s not true, he just wants you to think that way, he just wants you to believe that—”

“You’ve been selling yourself.”

“It’s not _like_ that, I—” Kouyou pressed his lips together, cutting himself off. “Look, I am not discussing this with you.” Drawing the phone from his ear, he moved to type something, probably an angry text as Kai was obviously not picking up.

“Why did he come here, Kouyou?” Takanori said, his voice trembling, but his face remained blank, numb. “Why did he tell me to back off? He said he wanted you loyal, but you’ve been fucking me, you let me—” he couldn’t keep eye contact; he had to look away. “Those jobs you said he offered, you never told me it was— _prostitution._ And he’s _married_ , too. You knew that.”

"Stop," Kouyou said, and there was a hand on Takanori's shoulder, forcing his attention. Kouyou’s voice was shaky when he spoke, like he was unsure himself. “The only reason he came to you is because he wants to wear you down, so that I’ll take the job, so I’ll go back to him. Don’t believe it. And the job isn’t— he's just been going through some issues, alright? He needs someone to vent to, and he makes it seem worse than it is. It’s not as bad as he makes it out to be.”

“Did he pay to hit you, too?”

“Taka, why can’t you listen to me…” 

“You haven’t gone to see him since, so I guess not. Is that why he’s so upset? Because you refuse to talk to him after he punched you?” The hand on his shoulder was tightening, but Kouyou stayed quiet, his eyes trained on the ground. “But Kai hit you because of _me_ , because he found out. Because you let me… you had a deal, and you broke it.”

The hand slipped from his shoulder, and Kouyou stepped away, shaking his head no. “It’s not like that.”

“How did you even get in this mess in the first place, Kou?” Takanori said softly. Stepping forwards, he reached up and brushed the hair out of Kouyou’s eyes; Kouyou’s eyes slid shut, and he was still angry, still frustrated, but he leaned into the touch when Takanori gently stroked his cheek. “Why would you even go to him?”

“You wouldn’t _understand._ ”

“Try me.”

“Kai was a… friend. He needed help, I needed something to do… and I wanted to— to feel something other than…” he was stumbling over his words either unable or unwilling to say it. “I needed to _own_ it—” Kouyou cut himself off then, sighing softly. “I needed the money.”

“To find the guy you’re looking for?”

“Yeah,” Kouyou said softly, pulling away. “And to pass the time. It’s been so long...” he shook his head. “I don’t know what else to do. I can’t just sit around, waiting. It’s been way too long.” Pulling away, he moved to the fridge, and Takanori could only watch as he grabbed a can of beer, opening it with a soft hiss. “It never seems to end.”

“So you’ll go back to him.”

“Maybe.” He took a swig as though it wasn't way too early to start drinking, looking anywhere but at Takanori. “Eventually, if I want to.”


	32. Chapter 32

Takanori was chain smoking.

It just kind of happened. Kouyou had taken his leave, leaving Takanori on the sofa to watch television and smoke in a hopeless attempt to distract himself from his thoughts. That was a few hours ago. He had barely moved since then. The smoking wasn’t on purpose, he’d just mindlessly grabbed a cig once he was alone, mostly out of habit, needing something to do aside from just sitting there, staring ahead— and as the cigarettes slowly burned out, he would eventually reach for a new one, and then a new one, and a new one. It added up.

Everything had gone tense between them. Kouyou was as silent as he’d been when he left by the time he returned, scrunching his nose up at the smoke that filled the room. He didn’t say a word, just went to open the window, face set in a discontented frown. He was angry, Takanori could tell. They both were. Whether that anger was directed at himself, he wasn’t entirely sure.

At least the phone had stopped ringing. It gave Takanori some peace of mind, the way Kai seemingly had gone completely quiet, though it left Kouyou to attempt to call him instead. He had been trying to get contact several times before he stormed off, which was almost ironic when Takanori thought about it. Kouyou looked unhappy as he disappeared into the bathroom, phone pressed to his ear, trying once more to get hold of Kai with no luck. This time he didn’t bother closing the door all the way to muffle his voice. Maybe he’d finally realized there was no point. There was no reason to hide anymore, despite how he kept denying the obvious truth, because Takanori knew what his secret was, what his jobs for Kai really consisted of—

Takanori looked away, stubbing out the last of his cigarette into the ashtray, feeling the chill start to take hold of the room with the cold air coming through the window. He could hear Kouyou’s frustrated pacing, his angry words as he finally gave up and resigned to leaving a voice message, “We need to talk. Why the hell did you show up here, and what did you _tell_ him? Why the hell aren’t you picking up?” A discontent sigh; through half-open door, he could see Kouyou pressing a hand to his forehead, long hair falling into his face. “I’m not gonna let you get away with trying to ruin everything, Kai. I know you’re listening to this. Call me.”

A moment later Kouyou pulled the door open; his expression was sad as he looked at the scene in front of him, the near empty box of cigarettes, the ashtray. At least they were getting some fresh — albeit cold — air. “Are you okay, Taka?” His voice was cautious. “Did he hurt you?”

“He said he wouldn’t, but he lied,” Takanori muttered. “Not that it matters. I’m fine. He hurt you worse.” 

Kouyou pushed the ashtray aside to sit down on the table, still keeping some resemblance of distance, but even with the space between them Takanori could feel the warmth radiating from him. “He’s gonna get it for this, don’t worry,” Kouyou said. His hands were clutching the edges of the table. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 _Yeah, you’ll get Kai,_ Takanori thought, staring at them, _just like you’ll get the guy who killed your dog, how you’ll burn him alive._ He sniffed indignantly. “Don’t act like this is about me.”

“How can’t I? He _attacked_ you. He came in here when you were _alone_ , trying to scare you off—”

“From being with you, yeah. The things he said…”

“Just— forget what he said, please,” Kouyou pleaded. “Kai wants this. He wants you to doubt, so you’ll stop trusting me. Don’t fall for it. Please.”

“He called you a whore,” Takanori said, still unable to tear his gaze away, watching Kouyou’s knuckles turn white with the force. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s why you got so upset, back when we fought, back when I— because it was true.”

“I didn’t _lie_.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth. “Anyone would get upset if someone they cared for insulted them like that! And what I told you, about my— my hometown, my old friends— how they treated me after I got outed… it just hit too close to home.”

“But you straight up admitted it, back when you were—”

“—Taka, why are you trusting Kai over me?” Kouyou interrupted, and when Takanori finally looked up, his expression was wistful. “You don’t even know him. You don’t know what he’s like, but I do. And I’m your _friend._ ”

Takanori fell silent for a moment, feeling oddly defeated. “Because I feel like you’re never honest to me about anything, Kouyou,” he finally admitted. “You’re right that I don’t know Kai, and I’d rather never see him again, yeah, but… I don’t know. It was like someone came up to me, finally willing to tell me what you’ve been hiding, to say the truth. But I don’t like the truth.” His voice was shaky, and Kouyou sighed softly, taking Takanori’s hands into his own, holding them. “I don’t like the truth, Kou.”

“The only reason Kai came here is because he wants you out of my life,” Kouyou said. “That’s the truth. He said what he did because he wants you to doubt me, so he can have me for himself. Don’t let him win.”

“But what he said, is that true? Have you really been selling yourself to him this whole time, to afford all this— all these things, the search for…” 

“It was never my idea.” Kouyou’s hands were squeezing his own, expression twisted into a bitter smile. “He was the one who came to me. About a year ago. He was afraid, said he kept thinking about hurting her, his wife, asked me for help…”

“So yes.”

“Well, I helped. Not for free, of course… as I said, I needed the money.”

Takanori fell silent again, staring at his and Kouyou’s linked hands. He was starting to get rather clammy, but he didn’t want to pull away. He needed the contact.

“The situation is fucked up right now, yeah, but I’ll work it out. I’m not going to let Kai get away with coming here, with threatening you,” Kouyou said. Takanori didn’t answer, knowing that if he did, he would probably only ruin everything further. Instead he settled for remaining quiet and enjoying the warmth of Kouyou’s body so close to his own, silence only broken when Kouyou said, “This doesn’t change anything between us.”

“But how?” Takanori said softly. “How can’t it?”

“Because nothing has changed.” And with that Kouyou let go, moving away. Takanori suddenly felt very, very cold.

He was right, though. Kouyou had been doing this for a long time, long before they even met; the only real difference was that now, Takanori knew. He just wasn’t sure what to do with the information yet. A part of him wanted to be disgusted by it all — the rational part of him, the one deeply ingrained with social norms and morals — but he knew he had no right to feel that way, that it would only make him a hypocrite. After all, how was Kouyou’s deal with Kai really any different from the videos? It was still sex work. It was still him being fucked and getting paid for it, and it had always been.

But it still made Takanori so _angry_ , thinking about it. He wasn’t sure why; maybe it was because Kouyou didn’t bother to tell him anything, or maybe it was that selfish, jealous part of him that made him _want_ so desperately to be the only one, even when Kouyou had made it clear that would never happen. He wasn’t exclusive to anyone. Not to Takanori, and not to Kai. God, Takanori wanted him to be so badly… he was no better than Kai in that prospect, he supposed, but hey, Takanori didn’t have a wife on the side, so he wasn’t a cheating piece of shit.

Standing up, Takanori grabbed the tray, idly stirring through the cool ashes with the remains of a cigarette butt, moving to throw them away. Kouyou was leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he silently stared out the window through open blinds — or he would have been, if his eyes hadn’t been closed. It gave Takanori pause, if only for a moment. It was like a serene version of one of the pictures, of a younger Kouyou squeezing his eyes shut under blinding light, or the faceless man… no, of _Kai_ dripping ink all over the floor as he shone a lamp straight into blind boy’s face.

What would drive a person to do something like that? To disregard their sense of self-respect, their dignity, all for money? Takanori wasn’t sure why the thought hit him, but considering Kouyou’s situation at the time… he’d probably been going through some form of depression, not really caring what happened to him or what he had to do to make ends meet. It made sense. Being rejected just for being who he was by the very people who had raised and loved him his entire life — and then being made homeless because of it, having to make it on his own… and it had been so sudden, too. Takanori didn’t know what it was like, not wholly, but he could imagine. It couldn’t have been easy, but Kouyou had still gone through with it. He’d pushed through and made it past a tough period of his life, and here we was years later, still doing it, still whoring himself for cash… 

But not entirely unscathed. “Hey, when that whole ordeal with your boyfriend happened…” Takanori started, unsure of exactly what he wanted to say. “After you got kicked out. Were you in a dark place?”

Kouyou opened his eyes then, squinting against the light before turning to look at him. “Well…” Trailing off, he chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You could say that.”

Closing the blinds he left the apartment dim, plucking a pair of sunglasses from the table to return to his games, not elaborating, and it was all Takanori could do to take his seat next to Kouyou on the sofa, curling up and staring at the screen.

“You know, back when I got kicked out, it wasn’t my dad who did it,” he said, so quietly it was barely audible over the game audio, but Kouyou heard it, giving Takanori a puzzled look. “It was my mom.”

Kouyou was silent for a moment, sheltered eyes fixed on the game menu but hands motionless on the controller. “Why’d you lie?”

“I didn’t, I just never told you.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying this. Part of him was hoping it would get Kouyou to open up to him, to see that they had something in common. “You just assumed. But it wasn’t him, it was my mom, she… she was the one who hit me, too.”

The bruises on Kouyou’s face were starting to fade, barely visible in the dim light, but in that moment they were all Takanori could see. Raising a hand, he ghosted fingers over the darkened skin; Kouyou sighed, and pulled away. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think she just got fed up with me—”

“No, I mean, why are you telling me this?”

Silence. “I guess… it’s because I want you to know that I can understand how you feel about what happened to you, Kou,” he said softly. “If you ever want to tell me anything, get something off your chest…”

“Thanks,” Kouyou said dismissively, cutting him off. “But I’m fine.”

 

He needed to clear his head. Get some fresh air, have a smoke outside, distract himself, anything. But god damn, he was just so… pissed. He wanted to be understanding, he just wanted to know things so he could get a better idea of the situation, of what went on in Kouyou’s head… because for all Kouyou pretended to be fine, he clearly had a fuckton of issues he refused to talk about. If only he could share, so Takanori could alleviate the burden somewhat — but he was shot down. As if his thoughts were worthless, as if he couldn’t do anything to make his friend feel better, as if… 

It was pointless, Takanori thought bitterly, kicking a beaten soda can off the sidewalk. Kouyou wasn’t going to let him try to help, he wasn’t going to say anything, not unless he was cornered. At least Kai was useful for that, even if his intention had been nothing but bad.

Letting himself all but fall into the park bench opposite the store, Takanori stared ahead, spotting his or Ishida’s replacement working the register inside. Fujimoto was nowhere to be seen. Taking the cigarette from between his lips, he breathed white smoke into the cool air slowly. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, mimicking what Kouyou had done for months on end every week before they even met, when Ishida would stop and stare helplessly. Again and again, like clockwork. Takanori had never even asked where he was heading to, when he walked by… though he figured it didn’t matter anymore.

The sky above him was white. Were there anyone else, Takanori found himself wondering, was it really just him and Kai, or did Kouyou go to other people, too? His mind trailed back to the bar, to the creep Shiroyama had to drag off. Maybe that had been another customer, someone else like Ishida who had bought the videos, fallen for blind boy, and wanted more. But Kouyou hadn’t been with that creep, Takanori could tell — he hadn’t showered upon coming home, he’d smelled like himself, and he definitely felt like himself when they fucked in the dark after Kouyou woke up shivering. There was nothing to hide, to wash away that night, unlike all those times he had been out to see Kai.

God damn. Takanori pressed the cigarette to his mouth again, taking a deep drag to calm the rage that was settling deep in his bones. Maybe what he needed was a coffee, and something sweet to soothe his nerves… Kato’s place wasn’t tempting, though. But a walk through the shopping district would be a good distraction, Takanori decided, getting up from the bench — and he could grab a coffee while he was at it, though Akira’s shift was probably over by now.

By the time he returned to the apartment that evening he wasn’t empty handed, several bags heavy in his hand as he pushed the door open. The living room was dimly lit, television turned off. When he entered, Kouyou looked up from where he sat on the sofa, phone pressed to his ear. He raised a hand in greeting for a second, before returning to what he was doing — counting money. Takanori raised a brow, seeing what was spread neatly across the table — bills of yen, along with a couple cans of beer. It was plenty money for someone with no job, significantly less for someone with high expenses, like hiring people to track someone down.

“Come on, are you sure it’s impossible?” Kouyou spoke into the receiver, voice slightly lowered now that Takanori was present. “No, I can’t pay right now. I’m going through some issues, but I’ll figure a way to— no, come on, it’s important, alright? Please, at least try? It’s worth a shot…” he sighed, hand pressing flat against the table, looking annoyed. “Fine. _Please_ , Jiro, can it be done?”

Takanori couldn’t help but chuckle, slightly humored by the display, and Kouyou rolled his eyes at him. Shrugging, Takanori picked his bags back up, going to the bedroom to look over his new purchases.

“Then why’d you even…” Kouyou sounded irritated from where he was still on the phone. “You know what, never mind. If you’re not going to be of any help, then why’d you even bring it up?”

What that was about, Takanori didn’t know, but it was probably one of the detectives-for-hire; it wouldn’t be the first time Kouyou had hushed arguments with mysterious strangers over the phone. Takanori had stuff to do, for once, anyway. He hadn’t bought much — just some new clothes, since his wardrobe desperately needed to be refreshed.

There was a long silence from the living room. “Alright, keep me posted,” he heard Kouyou finally say, before hanging up. “Asshole.”

It made Takanori smile somehow, amused. “Who’s the asshole this time, Kou?”

“Just one of my guys.” Kouyou appeared in the doorway, watching Takanori neatly fold the new clothes and put them away. “I thought he was going to be helpful, but he decided to waste my time instead. Weren’t you nearly broke?”

A shrug. “I needed this. Looks like you’re great at surrounding yourself with efficient people there.”

“Did you get a job yet? Are you sure you can afford this kind of thing?”

“... I wasn’t referring to myself,” Takanori muttered. “Don’t judge me. My dad used to do that, every time I’d bought anything.”

“Your dad probably had a point. I don’t think you can afford to waste money, all things considered.”

“Yeah? Well, at least I’m not—” he stopped himself from saying something stupid, shaking his head. “Whatever. What was your call about?”

Kouyou just looked sad. “Same old. Being unhelpful as always. They demand more money, and they’re not telling me what I need to hear…”

“Selfish bastards, aren’t they?” Takanori drawled. “You could just deal with the problem and pay them off.”

“And give them what they want? I’m not a pushover, Taka.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Can’t afford to right now.”

“So? Go back to fucking Kai, earn a living—”

There was a rough shove to his chest, cutting off whatever bullshit he was about to say. “Don’t you _dare_ act like—” Kouyou began, but stopped himself at the sudden buzzing noise coming from his pocket, at his phone ringing. He backed off. Takanori watched as he pulled the phone out, something hopeful in his expression that died moments later. “It’s my mother.”

“Does she know?”

Kouyou bit his lip. “Of course she doesn’t,” he said. “I need to take this.” With that he turned around, leaving the bedroom. There was the soft sound of a door clicking shut as he left the apartment, going out to the hallway for privacy. Takanori looked away, feeling something gnawing at him. He was only making things worse, but he couldn’t help it. His patience was stretched too thin, and Kouyou being so dismissive earlier had done nothing to help. Things would probably have gotten ugly if not for the call.

Takanori sighed, sitting down on the bed, head in his hands. He needed to learn to just keep his fucking mouth shut, to stop being such an idiot, but Kouyou was so _frustrating_. Shopping had been a nice distraction, but now that he was back here, he regretted ever buying anything after facing Kouyou’s blatant disapproval. It was almost like being back home again, how Takanori’s father judged him each and every time to the point that he just wanted to shrivel into himself and hide from the whole world. Kouyou wasn’t supposed to be like that. Kouyou was supposed to be his safe space.

But that was a lot to expect, wasn’t it? Kouyou wasn’t exactly an angel. He had been keeping secrets from Takanori from the day they met, always lying and denying, and now that the truth that he had been prostituting himself for years was finally out in the open, he was dismissing Takanori’s attempts to talk about it… just like he always refused to tell him anything. Why did Takanori even try?

Right. Because he was blind boy, because he was his muse, because he was his best friend. Because Takanori _loved_ him; that was why. He felt numb. And bitter, and sad, and furious all at once, like he needed to hurt something. Mindlessly he grabbed for the nightstand, taking whatever he could reach — Kouyou’s shades. He tossed them aside, found his current sketchbook and opened it. No new drawings despite the video Ishida had sent him, pages blank from when Kai had come knocking.

He wanted to rip the pages out.

“Hey.” 

Kouyou’s voice was gentle, and Takanori looked up; he hadn’t even heard him coming in, but there he was standing in the doorway, expression apologetic. Takanori glanced back down at the book, but didn’t close it — there was nothing to hide, anyway. “Hey,” he murmured in return.

“I’m going to bed,” Kouyou said, opening his dresser to find his night clothes, but seemed to think better of it, beginning instead to fumble with the zipper of his jeans. “Want to come to bed with me?”

Takanori was staring, he knew it, unable to tear his eyes away as Kouyou pulled his pants down, revealing long, smooth legs, his thighs covered in bruises that were dark but beginning to heal. “Sure,” he said slowly, closing the sketchpad, putting it back in the box where it belonged. “It’s a little early, though.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” Takanori agreed, finding his own night clothes as Kouyou sat himself down on the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. It would have looked inviting but for the bruises. “Yeah, it has.”

It was hard to look at them — because those were Kai’s markings, possessive brands of ownership made in a moment of jealous rage, and they covered the ones Takanori had left before.

Neither of them said anything about it. They went to bed together, like they used to, cuddled up and drifted away like they used to, before everything began to go wrong… but Takanori couldn’t sleep. He lay still, eyes closed, listening to the breathing next to him yet remained wide awake for hours. He wasn’t sure why — maybe he just wasn’t tired in the first place, having woken up so late, but he just wanted to fall unconscious. He wasn’t even overthinking anything, mind practically gone blank, yet even the warmth of Kouyou’s body close to his wasn’t helping. Maybe it was the lingering rage that had settled in his arms, in his heart, maybe it was the knowledge of what Kouyou had been hiding away for so long, the bruises Kai had left on him, not just on his face, but on his entire body.

There was a small moan, near a whimper, next to him.

Not that Takanori had seen them all, of course, but he guessed they went further than his legs, trailing up to his torso as well; Takanori remembered vividly how Kouyou had tried to hide himself the night he came home after seeing Kai, when he was drunk in the shower and freshly injured. Rolling over, Takanori cracked his eyes open. He could make out the faint shape of Kouyou, turned away from him, a shoulder where the covers had at some point slipped down. He had gone back to his old night clothes — the oversized tee and underwear, maybe in a vain hope to show Takanori that they were okay, that nothing had changed.

Takanori inched closer. Beneath the blankets, he reached a hand out to touch Kouyou, blindly searching for the bruised skin he’d seen hours earlier. Kouyou whined softly, still asleep, and curled up tighter. Not much longer now, Takanori could tell.

Hell, he’d probably been waiting for this to happen. For the nightmares to grab hold of Kouyou, for him to wake up shaky and demand sex, like he always did. Takanori sat up, leaning against the headboard and running a hand gently through Kouyou’s hair, watching through the darkness as Kouyou turned in his sleep.

Takanori never asked what he dreamed of. He never questioned it after the first time it had happened, and he didn’t do anything as Kouyou’s eyes snapped open, wildly looking about the room before settling on the window, then on Takanori. He didn’t protest as Kouyou shoved the covers aside, straddling Takanori’s lap and beginning to pull at his pants with shaking hands.

“Kouyou.”

He expected Kouyou to stop, but he didn’t, seeming not to even hear Takanori’s voice as he dragged his own boxers down, shrugging them off completely. Hands were back on Takanori not a moment later, pulling his cock out, pumping it, and Takanori gasped slightly, grabbing Kouyou’s shoulder, “Kouyou, please look at me.”

He paused, then, looking up in the dark room, and their eyes met. Takanori could see it, the desperation, the _fear_ in what little light the window provided — but just as soon as Kouyou had stopped, he was back at it, reaching out to the nightstand, pushing it open and grabbing for a bottle of lube with practiced ease.

“What did you dream about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kouyou only said, pouring a generous amount of the liquid over his hand. Takanori moaned as the cold lube coated his hardening cock, but Kouyou was warm, so hot it almost burned when he turned around and slowly sank down onto the shaft. 

Takanori placed hands on his hips, feeling a pang of hurt course through him, because for the first time, Kouyou turned his back on him, facing away as they fucked. It felt impersonal, like they were strangers in it for their own gain but with no attachment to each other. His hold tightened on the bruised skin in something akin to rage at the thought, because to Kouyou, this meant _nothing._

In all the nights he turned to Takanori for comfort, it hadn’t meant anything; in those moments, Takanori was just a faceless body, a means he could use to ground himself to reality. Something to take him away from the nightmares, something that allowed control to be entirely in his own hands, where he was the dominant one, and Takanori could do nothing but lie back and allow it to happen—

Takanori growled, gripping even harder as he gave it everything he had, pushing Kouyou forward. He could make out the strangled gasp of surprise as Kouyou fell onto all fours, his muffled wails as Takanori thrust into him with a ferocity that hadn’t been there before, leaning forward to plant kisses up his clothed back, his bare neck, over the healing bruises. It was fast and hard, the only sound in the room the bed creaking in protest along with their own gasps and moans, and Takanori groaned loudly as he came, Kouyou collapsing into the sheets below with a choked moan.

They stayed there, completely drained of energy and trying to catch their breath; after a while, Takanori pulled an unmoving Kouyou close, covering them in the blankets. He kissed Kouyou’s neck gently, apologetically. “I love you,” he murmured, too tired to stop himself, feeling exhaustion quickly catch up to him. “I love you so much.”

Finally Takanori fell asleep, and he was too far gone to notice when Kouyou slid out of his arms.

He never heard him leave.


	33. Chapter 33

It was dark around him when he finally started to stir from sleep; outside, thick winter clouds crowded around the sun, preventing light from reaching the bedroom. Curling into the sheets, Takanori reached out, his eyes still closed. The bed was warm with his own body heat, the space next to him conspicuously empty. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to face the consequences of his actions last night, not yet. But he couldn’t continue sleeping, now that he was fully conscious. He’d done something stupid, said something even more stupid, god, he knew — but maybe Kouyou would finally get his head out of his ass. So he hoped, anyway. Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, Takanori shivered as the cold hit him. If he was going to face the music soon, then he best prepare himself. It seemed he had plenty of time; judging by the deafening silence, Kouyou had probably gone somewhere.

It really was quiet. Almost eerie, like there wasn’t a living soul in the entire complex but for him. Though to be fair, it had been that way ever since Takanori had first stepped inside the building. He just didn’t notice the silence most of the time, not when Kouyou was around, or when he was watching something, drawing, or when his CD player was belting out music.

He took his time getting dressed, listening closely just in case there really was anyone around, before finally leaving the bedroom. Something felt off.

“Kouyou?” he called out in the empty living room. “Are you home?”

As expected, there was no response. He would just have to wait, then. Sighing, Takanori went to the kitchen area, intending to get something to eat — no pot of boiled water stood by the stove, and the scent of Kouyou’s morning tea that he’d grown so accustomed to was notably absent. He must have taken off first thing after waking up, Takanori guessed. Odd. Most days, Kouyou wouldn’t do anything without a cup of tea in place of breakfast.

What would he say when Kouyou came back? _Sorry for driving you into the mattress and then confessing my feelings for you afterwards?_ That wouldn’t go over too well. His mind was too scattered to really explain his actions — months of equal parts frustration and adoration building up before it grew too much and it finally burst, leaving Takanori to pick up the pieces. But damn it, he had just wanted… something. He wasn’t too sure himself what he had really been thinking in that moment. Maybe he’d just wanted Kouyou to snap out of whatever daze the nightmares left him in and for once see Takanori, understand what he made him feel…

Not that Kouyou would be likely to listen, stubborn as he was. Peeking into the fridge, despite his waning appetite, Takanori paused. Huh. Plenty of food, yes, but it looked emptier than he remembered; most of the booze was gone. That couldn’t be a good sign. Not that Kouyou running off with the alcohol was particularly unusual — there had been a couple times he had raided his fridge to share with his ‘friends’, as he’d put it, but… at this hour?

Takanori bit his lip, closing the fridge. There it was again, the guilt, gnawing at him. It was entirely possible that Kouyou had ran off to drink himself into oblivion in private. An ugly idea, certainly, especially considering the day had barely started — Takanori had just woken up himself, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Kouyou had probably snuck out a few hours earlier.

Maybe he should call him, just in case he was drinking himself to death somewhere. Takanori wouldn’t put it past Kouyou to start downing beers at the crack of dawn, especially not after… the mental image of Kouyou, alcohol poisoned and lying in a ditch somewhere, was not pretty. Forcing the thought from his mind, Takanori was quick to find the phone, moving to the sofa as he punched in the number, the monotonous sound of beeping dulling in his ears as he caught sight of the sketchbooks spread open on the table.

Mother of _fuck._

His own drawings stared up at him, blind boy— no, Kouyou’s face staring sightless at him as if judging, and Takanori felt his blood run cold. He hardly even noticed when the long, patient beeping cut off, the call declined. Shit. Fuck. _Shitdamnfuck._ The curses mingled together in his head, and Takanori only remembered to breathe as the phone loudly clattered to the floor, having slipped out of his hand. “Oh, god,” he whimpered, a page open in his first sketchbook showing a scene where the man he now knew to be Kai forcing blind boy down on all fours, not unlike what he himself had done the night before—

Oh, god. Kouyou had seen everything. He knew everything. No wonder he’d left.

He was gone.

“Oh, god.” He was _gone_. He knew, and so he had left, taken his booze with him, and he wasn’t picking up the phone because Takanori was the last person he wanted to talk to right now, and it was entirely possible he wasn’t ever going to come back at all—

Takanori didn’t even fight back when the tears welled up in his eyes, did nothing to stop them. He burned with shame, with guilt, grief at the knowledge that after so long, everything had finally fallen apart. God, fuck everything.

Slowly he grabbed the phone off the floor, resisting the urge to grab each book and slam them against the wall as hard as he could. Wiping his eyes, he took a slow breath, steadying himself. He called the number again. 

It went to voicemail. “Fucking hell, Kou,” he almost sobbed, because of course Kouyou would turn his phone off.

Where could he have gone? There was the possibility that he had gone back to Kai — his grip on the phone tightened at the thought, fuck, that was exactly what Kai wanted, splitting them apart so he could have Kouyou for himself… if that was the case, Takanori had no way of finding them. Maybe he’d gone to— to Akira’s place, or maybe he was at Kato’s, or maybe he really was lying in a ditch somewhere, feeling betrayed— and it was all Takanori’s fault.

 _Calm down._ Flipping the phone open again, Takanori found Akira’s number — it was better to ask around than jump to conclusions, after all — but he hesitated. Akira would have questions. Akira would blame him for this, and he’d be right to do so. If he found out what Takanori had done, their friendship would be done for. The thought of being truly alone again hurt more than anything. 

He couldn’t risk it. But he was biting his lips to the point of bleeding, staring at the tiny phone screen. Then what could he do? Even if he wanted to, there was no way of contacting Kai. He had no idea where Kouyou could be. Shady bars aside, he didn’t know where Kouyou went when he was out, when he wanted to be alone. He didn’t know any of Kouyou’s people, didn’t know his friends other than Akira. He didn’t know anything at all…

But there was someone who might. 

It was a long shot, but even that was better than nothing. Mind made up, Takanori grabbed his jacket and boots, hurrying out of the apartment, barely having the mind to lock the door behind him.

Takanori’s eyes were peeled the entire walk down the familiar path towards the park and to Kato’s coffee shop. He studied every person he saw, everyone walking the streets or milling between the towering buildings, searching for a familiar face that never showed. He didn’t spot Kouyou either, nor Kai for that matter, and a woman gave him an odd look as she noticed his stare. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Takanori looked away, damning that he’d forgotten his scarf, his gloves, his beanie. It was freezing.

But Kato’s place was warm.

The bells jingled as he entered, letting the thick smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries welcome him. Heaven must be a coffee shop, Takanori decided, shaking some freshly fallen snow from his hair as he threw a look around the locale, taking in the few customers. Not here. Damn. Maybe he should just order something, sit down, cross his fingers and wait. He would show up. He had to; the guy was his only chance…

“Can I get you anything, Matsumoto?”

Kato’s kind voice pulled him from his thoughts, and Takanori smiled at her appreciatively. “Uh, yeah, can I…” he trailed off; shit, had he even brought money? It was obvious that Takanori hadn’t thought this through. “Shit, this is embarrassing, I think I forgot my wallet.”

Her mouth twitched in annoyance at the stray curse, but she seemed sympathetic. “All this time you’ve come here, I’ve never known you to be the forgetful type,” she said, leaning on the counter. “There something on your mind, boy?”

“Actually, there is… have you seen Kouyou today?”

“He hasn’t been here, no,” she said, brows wrinkling in concern. “Why are you asking? Did he go anywhere?”

“You could say that,” Takanori said, uncertain. “He kind of left this morning. We had an, ah, argument last night and when I woke up he was gone, and I don’t know where he went...”

“If you expect me to know where he is, Matsumoto, I unfortunately don’t.” She was pouring coffee into a rather sizable cup, adding sugar to it. “It’s a shame you fought, but you know how he is. That kid is always going about something. Kouyou can be awfully dramatic, and he’s got a head full of bad ideas, you know. I worry for him too, always have, that one day he will find himself in trouble that he won’t be able to get out of on his own… but if there’s anything you can be sure of when it comes to Kouyou, it’s that he will return. He always does.”

“How do you know that?”

Her smile was gentle, soothing despite how anxious he still was. “I have known that kid for over a year. If he feels at home somewhere, so long as he’s able, he will come back no matter what. Just give him some time.” She slid the cup forward for him to take, freshly brewed and loaded with sugar, just as he liked it. “Trust me. If anyone knows, I do. This is on the house; enjoy it, and warm up.”

Takanori could do as she said, and she shooed him off instead of letting him thank her. Settling in his usual spot by the window, he let the coffee heat his chilly hands. It took a while before he even remembered to drink it, the way he was staring out the window, taking in the people walking by, studying their faces, the shapes of their bodies as he waited. By the time he finally spotted the man, the cup was already half drained, and he kept a close eye on the approaching figure, dressed in all black as though to attend a funeral.

A very casual funeral.

Takanori made no effort to hide his blatant staring as the man entered, gave his order, and as he turned to find a free table where he could mope in peace, Shiroyama’s dark eyes met Takanori’s. He could swear the man almost jumped at the sight of him, and Shiroyama hesitated for a moment before deciding to come closer anyway, tentatively taking a seat in what would usually have been Kouyou’s chair.

“You’re alone,” Shiroyama stated. 

“Yeah, it happens.”

“Why isn’t Takashima with you?”

That was already a red flag. Takanori looked down at his coffee, feeling the doubt gnaw at him; not that he didn’t already know this had been a bad idea, but Shiroyama was really the only accessible person Takanori knew had information on Kouyou, so it could be worth it. Hopefully. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Shiroyama’s frame tensed visibly; he obviously remembered the episode at the bar when they had met, the questions he had dodged and then ran away from. “Look, even if I wanted to answer, I don’t have the authority to—”

“Oh, fuck authority,” Takanori interrupted, tone making it clear he was still pissed about their last meeting. “But you know what, nevermind that shit. It doesn’t matter right now. I wanted to ask you about Kouyou. How come you always seem to know where to find him?”

“How I…? Uh—”

“And if the answer is ‘I follow him around until I find out where he’s going’, I’m going to call the cops on you,” Takanori finished. Shiroyama grew silent, looking away; Takanori groaned. “Oh, come _on_ …”

“It’s not what you think,” Shiroyama was quick to say. “I don’t mean to cause him any sort of harm, if anything it’s the opposite! I mean, he— you know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s putting himself in danger, and I just— I can’t just sit by and let it happen.”

“So you’re a stalker with good intentions?”

“I’m not a—”

“If you mean so well, then why does Kouyou avoid you like the plague, huh?” Takanori said, leaning forward, his face set in frustration, in anger. “Why did he throw a drink in your face if you’re such a fucking _good guy?”_

“Watch your language, kid.” 

There was a reprimanding slap to Takanori’s arm, and he grunted in pain, rubbing the sore spot as Kato glared at him, setting down a glass for Shiroyama. He hadn’t even noticed her.

“Sorry, Kato,” he muttered, and she strolled off back to the counter. “Great,” he groaned, noting Shiroyama’s order. “Another alcoholic. That’s just great.”

Shiroyama didn’t touch the sugar packet to add to his drink, looking into the liquor coffee thoughtfully. “Takashima drinks a lot, doesn’t he?”

Takanori sighed, his annoyance evident. Fuck, he knew this wasn’t going to go help. Shiroyama obviously didn’t have the information he was looking for. “Do you know where he is?”

“I thought he was with you…”

Yeah, this wasn’t going anywhere. “Tell me, Shiroyama, why are you always walking around these parts?”

A pause. “Because I know he comes here often,” Shiroyama said quietly. “I was hoping to talk some sense into him.”

“But he won’t listen to you because you’re some weird stalker.”

“No, you don’t _understand_ —” he cut himself off, rubbed his temple, and Takanori crossed his arms.

“Then make me understand.”

“I—” Shiroyama almost looked desperate to talk, but he bit his lip, looking away. “I can’t.”

 _Goddamn_. “Why?” Takanori hissed, keeping his voice low, only for Shiroyama to hear. “What’s stopping you from explaining what the fuck is going on? Why are you skirting around the subject and running away instead of just saying it? What are you so afraid of?”

“Because last time I told someone, we all paid the price for it,” Shiroyama admitted. “It’s been made very clear that we aren’t permitted to divulge information to outside parties under any circumstances.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The police force.”

Takanori froze. What, this guy was a _cop?_ This sad excuse for a man in front of him was an officer of the fucking law? It was almost laughable. Takanori frowned, downing the last of his coffee, long gone cold by now. “I guess Kouyou was right all along, then. Police really are useless.”

“I—” Shiroyama looked defeated, his eyes clouded with dark thoughts, running a hand through his hair. “No, you’re right. He’s right. We can’t do anything properly. I can’t even keep him safe…”

Takanori glanced between the half-empty glass of liquor coffee to Shiroyama’s pathetic form. A cop with drinking problems. What a fucking cliché. “You mentioned something, at the bar.”

A grimace. “I mentioned a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

“Keep Kouyou safe, you said. And I was wondering for a while what you meant. Safe from what? But then a few days ago, I think I figured it out. I…” Takanori trailed off, unsure if he should continue. 

This wasn’t a good idea by any means, but if Shiroyama was telling the truth, then he had some semblance of power. If he was as desperate for Kouyou’s safety as he seemed to be, he was likely to at least make an effort to stop it.

It could very well be worth it, in the end. “A few days ago, someone came to see me,” Takanori continued, “some guy I had never met, he— well, he threatened me.”

Shiroyama was listening intently, attention focused solely on him. “Did you contact police?”

“No. He said he wouldn’t hurt me so long as I didn’t try to call anyone. By the time he had gone I didn’t even think about it.”

“Who was this man?” Shiroyama asked, folding his hands on the table, the officer in him surfacing. It was almost funny to watch. “Can you describe him?”

“I don’t know who he was. Said his name was Kai, but that’s obviously not his _actual_ name,” Takanori said. “And I probably couldn’t pick him out in a crowd if I tried.”

“I see. What did he want from you?”

“To talk. It was about Kouyou. He was jealous, said that I was getting between the two of them or some bullshit like that.” 

“Jealous?” Shiroyama repeated somewhat hesitantly. “Does that mean—”

A nod. “It’s pretty much what it sounds like.”

“Huh…” Shiroyama was quiet, but it was obvious by the troubled look on his face that he didn’t like the implications. “This man, are you sure you don’t remember what he looked like?”

“Nothing specific. Taller than me, shorter than Kouyou. Attractive enough if you swing that way, I guess. Looked kind of old, though.” Shiroyama gave him a questioning look, and Takanori shrugged. “I don’t know. He looked maybe forty.”

“Forty?” He sounded puzzled. “But what would Takashima be doing with someone twice his age…?”

“It’s the money.”

“The— what?”

“Yeah.” Takanori nodded slowly, sure to keep his voice down. “I didn’t want to believe it either, but Kouyou’s selling himself.”

Something settled in Shiroyama’s frame that Takanori couldn’t quite put a finger on. He leaned back, hand over his mouth, staring at nothing in particular as he processed the information. The confusion was obvious in his expression, along with something else.

Disbelief.

Whatever it was Shiroyama wanted to protect Kouyou from, it clearly wasn’t this. He hadn’t known. “But why would he— after all of that—” Shiroyama was muttering to himself, sentences disjointed and incomplete. “I don’t… why would he go back to that, after…?” Shiroyama seemed to snap out of it then, reaching down into a pocket to pull out his wallet, throwing some money onto the table. “Thank you for telling me this,” he said, standing up. “Really. I need to go. I need to—”

“What are you going to do?”

“—this needs to be dealt with. I gotta…” He rummaged through his pockets again. “Wait a second.”

Takanori watched him go to the counter, and after a brief exchange that brought a frown to Kato’s face, Shiroyama was handed a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled something down, returned to Takanori and handed it over. A phone number. 

“If you ever hear from that man again, see him, anything at all— call, okay? Doesn’t matter when or where, it’s important. And tell Takashima that he can contact me. I need to fix this.”

It was all Takanori could do to nod, and Shiroyama looked relieved. His pace was hurried when he left; Kato watched him go, her eyes moving from his retreating form to Takanori, still by the table, clutching the piece of paper.

That hadn’t exactly gone like expected. Though it did give Takanori some peace of mind that someone was willing — and hopefully, capable — to deal with the whole Kai situation. Even if it made Takanori feel a bit strange to know he’d just set a fucking policeman on someone… but Kai deserved punishment after what he had done. The bruises trailing up Kouyou’s legs, his neck, across his cheek, they were testament to that; utterly unforgivable.

But then again, was Takanori truly any better? He may not have hit him like Kai had, but he had still betrayed Kouyou’s trust — a betrayal that had made him leave. Kouyou was still missing. He was still… aware of what Takanori had been doing for so long.

 _He will come back,_ Kato’s voice reminded him in his head. _Just give him time._ God, what was Takanori going to say when they met again? Assuming she was right, he would need a really fucking good explanation for the drawings — but there was no excuse. It was obvious what they were. Takanori couldn’t talk himself out of the corner he found himself backed into. What could he say but the truth? How could he possibly word it in a way that would make Kouyou even consider to forgive and forget? _Sorry for becoming obsessed with your porn and not telling you about it despite knowing you for half a year and moving in with you, but it would have been awkward._

Kouyou wasn’t going to forgive him for being such a fucking moron. Takanori wasn’t going to forgive himself either, for that matter.

“Don’t look so glum, Matsumoto,” Kato said as she quickly counted the money Shiroyama had left. “Have some faith.”

Easy for her to say. “I’ll try.” Slowly Takanori stood up, the note with the phone number folded and shoved into a pocket. “I think I’ve done something really stupid.”

“That why he left you?” 

Hearing it from her stung a lot more than he expected. _He left you, Takanori. You told him you loved him and he left._ His intrusive thoughts weren’t exactly helping; that wasn’t the reason, but he still felt the hurt of it, of having his feelings rejected like that… not trusting his voice, Takanori nodded, and Kato picked the cups from the table. 

“Don’t worry so hard. You share Kouyou’s apartment, don’t you?” she said. “Meaning he’ll return eventually. He has to. Whatever you may have done, you can make it up then, just be patient.”

“Look, I appreciate it, Kato,” Takanori said, “but I’m not sure he’ll even give me the chance.”

“So take the time to figure a way to make him listen to you.”

With that she went back to the counter, and Takanori looked out the window where snow was still falling steadily.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please take note of the fic warnings for this chapter.

He will come back to you. 

The words repeated in Takanori’s head, again and again. He will come back. He has to. He just needs time, is all.

But Takanori was losing hope. It had been days, and so far he had heard nothing. Kouyou continued to elude him, not showing up anywhere Takanori knew to look, and his phone was either turned off or rang into silence.

Shiroyama didn’t come back to the shop, either. He must have busied himself with work, probably trying to gather more information on what Takanori had said. He didn’t know that Kouyou was gone; Takanori hadn’t told him… though there was the possibility he had found out on his own. 

Takanori sighed. His laptop was open in front of him, inbox pulled up; dozens of emails had been sent to him over the last week, and other than the stray spam mail, it was all from Ishida. All of it the same, too. Seemingly unending nag begging Takanori to pick up, to listen to him, to send Kouyou his way. It left a sour taste in Takanori’s mouth. _Goddamn_. He was such a piece of shit… deep down part of him honestly hoped Kouyou would stay away forever, because he didn’t deserve to see Kouyou again. Slowly he took to deleting all the emails — the majority had been sent during the first couple days after blocking Ishida’s number, when he had received that last video, but eventually they thinned out, coming to a stop only a few days ago.

At least Ishida finally seemed to understand that he wouldn’t get any answers. The emails served to give Takanori some amusement, because Ishida was so… pathetic throughout the whole ordeal. He always had been. It brought him some comfort to know that even now, he was better than Ishida, as if Takanori was the lesser of two evils. As though he hadn’t spent months poring over blind boy, just as Ishida had done, as if his artistic side excused everything that in the end had driven Kouyou away.

Takanori knew it was all his fault. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself. Ishida had started the whole mess, yes, but Takanori let it go this far, allowed himself to practically become obsessed — yet he still couldn’t bring himself to do anything about the videos he had gotten hold of.

_Are you sure you want to delete the selected file(s)?_

Cancelling the action, he leaned back, staring unseeing at the thumbnails, all thirty of them selected and ready to be discarded. He couldn’t do it. But why? Why was it so hard to delete them? And the drawings too, for that matter… the drawings he had spent so long on — if Kouyou did return, he would probably destroy them all without a second thought. Kouyou was worth more than his sketches any day, even if it had taken time and effort to fill those books. If it meant Kouyou would give him a chance, it was worth it. He loved him, after all.

Thinking about it brought fresh tears to his eyes, and Takanori angrily blinked them away. _Love_. Closing the laptop, Takanori stood up; he pulled up the blinds, looked out the window, hoping — praying — to see a familiar figure approach the building, but to no avail. _He will come back._ Kato’s faith in Kouyou returning was undeterred, even three days later, but she didn’t know what was going on, why he had left in the first place. She didn’t know Takanori had betrayed him like this. And how could she? There was no way she could have known about Kouyou’s… past, anyway. She probably wouldn’t think so kindly of him if she did.

By the time the fourth day came, Takanori’s patience was wearing thin. He couldn’t really sleep anymore, his worry for what Kouyou could have done to himself coupled with his own loneliness and the cold that had seeped into the apartment keeping him awake and conscious through the night. He didn’t go out, just in case Kouyou showed up, but that also meant he didn’t know if he were to appear somewhere in the city… in all, Takanori was back to being a complete shut-in, alternating between wallowing in guilt and self-pity while the fridge slowly grew empty. And all the while, he never could get around to deleting those fucking videos.

But the fifth day of Kouyou’s absence broke the silence. There was an email waiting for him when Takanori opened it up for lack of anything else to do, one that contained few words, but a file was attached.

> _as promised_

He hesitated a long minute. Ishida had sent him something, and Takanori had no idea what, or even why. He chewed on the inside of his mouth, considering his options — open it, or don’t. If he watched it… he would regret it, he knew, but if he didn’t, he would remain curious forever.

_Just one more. I need to know._

He just needed to know what it was. He just needed to know why, how… how everything had happened. So he placed the file in his folder, opened it, and pressed play.

“... ‘s it working?” a man’s voice came, somewhat muffled. “Oh yeah, fucking finally. ‘S how it works. It’s recording.” The guy cleared his throat audibly, pointing the camera up, away from the floor and onto a cheap-looking wallpaper. “So, here it is! Like you said, I’m gonna— yeah, it’s all gonna get filmed, you’re gonna get it, it’s gonna… thanks for the camera. Was a bitch to set it up, by the way, thanks for that too.” 

Takanori frowned. What the fuck was this? Who were they talking to?

“I haven’t decided how to… uh, set it up yet, I don’t usually do this kinda thing y'know, but I’m sending another tape too. You probably saw that first, just thought I’d get one in for a… a before-after shot, something like that, he’s a beauty, yeah? I mean, I’m not into that sorta shit myself but I could make an exception— I haven’t, of course,” the video shook momentarily as the man holding the camera laughed. “Anyway, I’m gonna get this shit set—” It abruptly cut off, coming back just as quickly. The lens blurred, then refocused. The guy, whoever he was, was standing right in front of the camera, meddling with it. “Right, all set up now.”

It cut off again. Takanori glanced down. A few minutes had already passed since he pressed play, but the video was over half an hour long. Ishida had sent this file to fulfill some kind of promise… somewhat anxious, he curled up in his seat on the sofa, unsure of what to expect as the feed returned, camera pointed towards a bed in an otherwise empty room. There were some shuffling noises, as though things were being pushed around the camera, before the guy stood back, leaving Takanori with the view of his nondescript jeans and shirt. He seemed satisfied, stepping away and to the left, out of frame. A door opened. 

There was a moment; voices, some chatter, the words were inaudible. Someone else entered. Looked like an aging salaryman, greying hair and all. The newcomer examined the room, testing the bed with a hand, and began to shrug off his coat, all the while not saying a word, before settling on the bed to wait for… something. Somewhere, Takanori could make out the faint sound of a struggle.

Interest fixed on something out of frame, the man stood up; more commotion, and then someone else was shoved into the room, stumbling on their feet from the rough push, arms tied behind their back. The man seemed pleased, but Takanori couldn’t look away from the shock of blue hair, so vivid in the otherwise drab room as realization hit him.

Oh fuck, no. Ishida _had_ promised to send something, on the condition that Takanori set him up with Kouyou. He already had the first video. Ishida knew that, because Takanori had told him. He knew Takanori didn’t have the second one, wanted to tempt him into giving in with the promise of more footage, a video that was supposedly thirty minutes long and full of… action.

Oh, _fuck_. Kouyou. He wasn’t even registering what was happening on screen, leaving it to play out as he jumped up and scrambled to search for where he had left his phone — if his suspicions were correct, this meant that Kouyou had actually gone to Ishida of all people, had— he didn’t want to think about it. Dialing the number, he waited.

Voicemail. Shit. Not that Takanori was surprised anymore that he was being rejected, but should he call Ishida? If Ishida was with Kouyou, then… the number was still blocked, of course. Oh god, the idea of what they could be doing that very moment— what they could just have done, filled Takanori with rage; he clutched the phone tighter in his hand. _No. Don’t think about it. I need to… I need to figure this out, do something…_

From the laptop there was a scream, tinny through the poor speakers. That pulled him out of his thoughts, and Takanori frowned. What the fuck was going on in that video? Rushing back to the sofa, he looked at the screen, seeing—

“—fucking let me go!”

Kouyou’s head collided with the bedpost.

His blood ran cold, brain taking in the scene in front of him. There was Kouyou, temporarily knocked out where he lay on his stomach while the aging man hovered above him, fiddling with the knot securing his hands at his back. “Don’t cause such a ruckus, kid,” the man grumbled, clearly annoyed, deciding to leave the tied wrists in favor for exploring the motionless body beneath him. “I paid good money for you.”

Kouyou stirred, raising his head and blinking to shake off the dizziness. “Who cares what you did, you can’t… no,” he uttered, beginning again to struggle under the man’s hold in an attempt to get him off. “Go away!”

This time, the man didn’t bother to answer, dragging Kouyou’s shirt up, baring his torso; his hands ran across the skin, despite the protest, and avoiding the flailing legs, he flipped Kouyou onto his back, beginning to work the zipper.

Takanori felt himself go numb. Oh _god_ , no… this couldn’t be happening. This sort of shit didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen, not to— not to Kouyou—

But it was. He had to stop watching. He had to close the video, call Ishida, ask just what the fuck he had sent him because this was— it was Kouyou on the screen, young and with blue hair and healthy eyes, and he was tied up and stripped bare by some— someone who was running his filthy hands all over Kouyou’s body, who was pulling his dick out and—

“Relax, kid. This will hurt less if you at least try to enjoy it.”

And Kouyou screamed.

Yet Takanori couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The video was allowed to play out, the man holding Kouyou’s legs open as he thrust into him feverishly, groaning and moaning all the while, ignoring Kouyou’s pleas to stop, his wails of pain. Everything about the scene was nauseating, yet Takanori couldn’t look away, could do nothing but sit there, wide-eyed and frozen in place as the man pulled out of Kouyou’s trembling form.

He ran a hand up Kouyou’s chest, through his hair, ignoring or enjoying Kouyou’s feeble attempt to pull away from the touch. “How about it? You’ve become a man.”

Kouyou drew a shaky breath. “F-fuck you,” he said. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t be impatient. I didn’t pay a fortune to fuck you once.”

“No…”

“You’re a biter, aren’t you?” He put a finger to Kouyou’s lips, tracing them, toying with them; Kouyou immediately snapped after the finger, prompting a chuckle. “Thought so. Shame… that’s a hassle. Don’t worry, though, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And it went on. The man continued to ignore Kouyou’s protests as he fucked him again and again. He ran his hands all over Kouyou’s body, gripped at his hips and thighs with bruising force, and when Kouyou’s struggling became too much, the man beat his head until he blacked out; even then, he just went straight back to the act, thrusting into Kouyou violently, almost as if he wanted the pain to bring him back to consciousness.

It was all so disgusting. Takanori could barely think, could hardly even breathe. All he could see was Kouyou’s prone form gradually becoming more and more bruised… he looked almost fragile. He was tall, of course, but under the bastard that was fucking him, he seemed so small.

The man paused, slapping the side of Kouyou’s face. “Wake up, kid. It’s no fun for anyone if you play dead.”

No response. He hit him again, but nothing. “That won’t work. I’m not falling for your act, you hear me?” One more slap, harder this time; Takanori flinched at the loud sound, but still nothing. “Oh, damn.”

As if it made no difference, he went back to thrusting into Kouyou who remained motionless on the bed, until he came, and got off. The man grabbed his pants from the floor, and left the room. Kouyou still didn’t move from where he lay exposed, legs spread wide, the man’s release slowly dripping down his thigh along with what could only be blood. Takanori felt sick. He was unable to move, unable to stop an angry tear from rolling down his cheek at what he was seeing. Someone let this happen.

Someone _made_ this happen.

The man returned a minute later, the guy from earlier in tow — now that he was far enough away from the camera, Takanori could actually make out what he looked like; kind of young, strong build, tall and with short cropped hair. He looked Kouyou over, turning his head in his hands, feeling for damage. “Fuck, man,” the guy sighed. “Don’t you remember the rules? No hurting the goods?”

“He was being unruly!”

“Yeah, that’s part of the appeal, innit? Not everyone enjoys this whole—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Done’s done. ‘S only gonna make this more expensive for you, we already discussed this. Have an extra fee for this sorta thing.” He sighed, touching the side of Kouyou’s head again; his hand came away red. “Ah hell, what were you tryna do? You aren’t supposed to _literally_ fuck his brains out.”

“I didn’t—”

“That was a joke, by the way. Just give the kid a bit.” He turned to the camera as if remembering it was there. “Don’t make it worse, alright? Damage’s permanent, then that’s on you and that fee’s gonna skyrocket.” Now directly in front of the camera., the guy started shuffling around with something out of frame. “I’m gonna patch him up, no worries—”

It cut off. Takanori blinked, finding himself facing a bit of floor once again.

“—fuck man, I’m not doing this ever again.” The tone was sour. “Way more effort than I need in my life. You’re the professional, kid’s yours if you’re still interested. He’s fine. Just took a beating, was out for a bit.”

The camera tilted up. Still the bedroom, now devoid of the second man, the one who had… done it. Kouyou lay there, curled up on his side. “Hey kid,” the man said, reaching for a bruised shoulder, getting a sharp flinch in response.

“... don’t.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, he’s fine.” Ignoring Kouyou’s pained whine, the man reached out again, successfully turning him onto his back, and Kouyou didn’t fight, too drained to do anything about it. “Here he is. Like I said, he’s a beauty. Needs a cleanup, but it still stands,” the man laughed, focusing on Kouyou’s face, camera recording everything from his glazed-over eyes to his lips, swollen and red from biting and something Takanori didn’t want to think about, just as he didn’t want to think about the come tracing Kouyou’s face, the dried tear tracks lining his cheeks.

It had obviously gone on for much longer after the camera went off.

Filming down his bruised torso, Takanori was treated to every detail of the beaten body, the blood and come coating Kouyou’s thighs, his usually beautiful legs; and despite being exhausted, despite looking so _broken_ he still gathered enough energy to sit up and spit in the man’s face.

“J— just go fuck yourself,” Kouyou hissed, his voice strained and shaky, “leave me the fuck _alone.”_

That made the man back off, camera shaking as he laughed. “Yeah, there you see, kid’s okay. You’ll love him. Hear you like ‘em feisty.”

The feed cut off again, this time for good, Kouyou’s angry, abused face disappearing, leaving Takanori with nothing but the black monitor where he could only see himself reflected on the black screen. His own eyes stared back at him, wide and shining with shocked, angry tears. This was… 

He exhaled slowly, his breath turning into a sob halfway through as he gathered his head in his hands. Oh, Kou. How could he have been oblivious to this? How could… shit, no wonder Kouyou hadn’t told him things, if this was the secret he had been living with for so long—

But it begged the question why. Why would he continue to do this, why would he return to it… not to mention, why the fuck would Ishida send this as though it was a _reward_ to watch Kouyou be forced down, be— it was such an ugly word, rape, but it was true, wasn’t it? What else could he call it? There was porn, there was prostitution, and then there was taking a homeless kid and selling him off into— that was something else entirely.

Oh, _fuck_. He grasped for the phone, finding Ishida’s number. Unblock, dial, _fucking answer, you sack of shit._

_“... Matsumoto? Is that you?”_

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the audacity to sound pleased. “Ishida, what the _fuck_ did you do?!”

 _“Huh?”_ It took him a moment, and Takanori was barely holding himself back from screaming into the receiver when Ishida seemed to understand. _“Oh, I see you got the email.”_

“That’s all? You’re not going to fucking explain yourself—”

_“Calm down, Matsumoto, we already talked about this. I’m glad you reconsidered.”_

“I didn’t tell him anything!” he shouted, unable to stop himself. “I wouldn’t! I told you that I wouldn’t, and I fucking meant it!”

 _“That’s odd,”_ Ishida said after a moment. _“I mean, he didn’t— he didn’t specify you sent him, so maybe he… he found me on his own then? Huh, that’s… that’s interesting—”_

“The video you sent me, Ishida,” Takanori interrupted. “Fucking start talking.”

_“Oh, yeah. It’s the second one ever, hard to find it now. Not really my kind of thing either, especially considering the… badly made, but it’s still kind of special to me.”_

“ _Special?_ Why?” he hissed, “Is it because you get to— is it because he gets _raped?_ Is that why you like it so much, huh?”

 _“But it’s always been that way,”_ Ishida said, genuine confusion in his voice. Takanori stopped breathing for a second, and on the other end there was a small noise, like Ishida realized something. _“Oh, I thought you knew.”_

It was so casual. As if he didn’t grasp the situation, like none of it mattered. Fuck, he was far worse than Takanori had thought. If he believed this was no big deal, then… Takanori strangled a sob at the thought. “Did you— did you sleep with him?”

 _“… well, no.”_ Ishida took a moment, continuing before Takanori could ask, _“He wanted me to… he wants me to help him find someone. That was his price, I mean, I… I can’t give Hirai up, even if I want— it’s not worth it.”_

“What do you mean, you can’t…” There was that name again. Hirai. “The person Kouyou’s looking for, you _know_ where—”

_“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s been a… uh, half a year. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t just been sitting around doing nothing all that time.”_

The jab wasn’t particularly subtle. Takanori huffed. “How did you even…? If you’re not going to— if you—” his words were jumbled, imprecise; he cleared his throat. “Whatever, just… just tell Kouyou to come back.”

 _“Afraid I can’t do that, Matsumoto…”_ It sounded like a muffled laugh. _“Remember all those months ago when I first asked you?”_

“You don’t mean…”

_“We could have both had a go at it, you know. We could both have gotten what we wanted if you hadn’t been so selfish. But you had to be stubborn, and it’s too late now, Matsumoto. I already gave you an offer. You said no.”_

“An offer?” Takanori said slowly. Like Ishida had the right to something like that… something in him snapped at the thought. “What you _offered_ was _assault_ , Ishida!” Takanori all but screamed. “It was— everything you sent me, it was— it’s rape! Why the fuck did you even do that? Why didn’t you tell me—”

_“What, you couldn’t tell?”_

“—and you _knew!_ You knew all along!”

Takanori’s breath was stilted, and on the other end, Ishida clicked his tongue. _“Matsumoto. Don’t blame me just because you didn’t notice. You’d have known soon enough if you only paid attention.”_

“No. No, no, no, you don’t get to say that after all this, don’t you dare even try, Ishida, you fucking— listen to me—”

_“Goodbye, Matsumoto.”_

The line went dead.

 

Ishida must have blocked him. 

What fucking irony that was. Their roles had been reversed in every sense, and now Ishida was the one with the information, the control. He had Kouyou. Takanori didn’t. Takanori was the one who had become desperate.

He was pathetic, Takanori thought, curling up in the tub, letting the hot water spray across his back. He felt so dirty; everything he had done over the past months, it had all been… blind boy wasn’t a willing participant in any of it. What had gone through Kouyou’s mind when he saw the sketches? What conclusions did he draw upon seeing what Takanori had spent so much time and effort on— aesthetically pleasing depictions of his own abuse, his own rape, over and over on every page.

There was a drawing in there somewhere, Takanori knew, from that first video. Where Kouyou sat still in an armchair, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the camera, at the viewer, blue the only colour on the page. Takanori wasn’t sure how long those videos dated back, but Kouyou had just been kicked out after the ordeal with the boyfriend… he’d been… he had been sixteen, he’d said. Just a teenager, a _child_ , god, fuck. Takanori was pulling at his hair, hands buried deep in the bleached roots, tugging painfully as he stared at nothing through bleary eyes. This was all so fucked up.

He was crying. Shame, shock, grief and rage, everything coming out at once in a flood of burning tears. It was too much. So much time watching Kouyou being abused by faceless men twice his age, and he hadn’t even for a second allowed himself to stop and think, to doubt the nature of the videos, because he didn’t want any of it to end. But part of him… part of him had suspected.

Ishida was right, wasn’t he? It had been obvious from the very start, if Takanori had only realized it instead of denying the possibility— hell, he had realized, at some point. He had just decided to deny it, forget so he could continue enjoying himself, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt, and now Kouyou was gone, everything was fucked, and Takanori had nobody to blame but himself.

Leaning his head back, Takanori closed his eyes as he felt the water start to go cold, but it was soothing on his hot face. He sniffled, shivering slightly as got out, ignoring his own reflection while he dried off. He already knew he looked like shit.

There was nothing Takanori could do but wait. And even that seemed fruitless, now that he knew where Kouyou had gone; he was clearly up to something, wherever he was, continuing his search for Hirai, for the dog killer. It was a lie, of course. All Kouyou did was lie, and for good reason… because he didn’t want anyone to know the truth.

_Heard you like them feisty._

He shuddered at the thought. Combing through his hair with his fingers, Takanori padded back to the bedroom to get dressed, lazily throwing something on. He didn’t even bother picking his outfit, didn’t even care that he was still wet from the shower. He just wanted to get dressed so he could go back to staring aimlessly out the window, hoping, praying that Kouyou would come back.

But the knocking on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

At the sudden noise, Takanori jumped, heart racing — he glanced at the window; it was still bright out, though evening was beginning to approach. The door was locked firmly, and Takanori wasn’t sure to answer. It could be Kouyou. He could be coming home, finally. But… it could also be Kai. Takanori’s encounter with the man had taught him to be fearful of unexpected visitors. But what if Kouyou was behind the door? What if he was— what if he was angry and drunk, maybe he’d lost his keys and was getting more and more pissed off as time wore on—

Knocking again, less patient this time, and Takanori pulled himself together, unlocking the door and cautiously drawing it open. Through the narrow crack, Akira glared back at him, confusion clear on his face. Oh. Right, it was Friday. Pulling the door all the way, Takanori leaned against the frame. “What are you doing here?”

“The hell’s going on, man?” Akira said. “I tried to call you. You didn’t pick up.”

“I was in the shower.”

“For two hours?” Takanori didn’t answer, shoulders drooping as he turned back into the apartment, and Akira followed. “Something’s going on. I can’t get hold of Shima. Couldn’t get hold of you all week either, so I came over.” Looking over Takanori’s shoulder, he glanced into the flat. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t— what do you mean you don’t know? Did he go anywhere without telling you?”

“Something like that.” He looked as defeated as he sounded when he slumped onto the couch; Akira remained standing, looking around as if it was the first time he was seeing the place. “Why did you come? I thought you didn’t want him to know.”

“Yeah, but I can’t reach him, and you weren’t answering. Besides, I trust you to play it cool if he was here, which he isn’t.” Akira crossed his arms; he looked more worried than angry. “I thought I told you to call if anything happened, Taka…”

“I’m sorry.” Takanori shook his head, gaze fixed on the floor. He had received texts from Akira during the week, asking about meeting up for a movie, but he’d ignored and ultimately forgotten them. “I’m really sorry, but I… I forgot.”

“So what happened? Did you guys fight, he tell you anything, or did he just disappear?”

A slow nod. “I said something stupid. Then I woke up and he was gone. I think he’s… he ran away, ‘kira.” Biting his tongue, he willed away the telltale sting of tears in his eyes; he couldn’t cry, not in front of Akira. “He’s probably out somewhere, searching for… whatever, I don’t know. He ran away, like—”

“Like Keisuke did.”

Takanori paused. “Yeah, like Keisuke did,” he repeated, but Akira wasn’t looking at him. “What’s the story with the dog, Akira? The truth, I mean.”

“I have a… theory,” Akira began, leaning his weight on the sofa as he stared blankly at the television. “I’ve been trying to make sense of what you told me, and I think… well, he loved that dog a lot. They got it when he was just a kid.” Takanori didn’t say anything, leaning his head back against the cushion, listening closely to Akira talk.

“There was that whole disaster when Kouyou disappeared,” Akira continued. “I was going through my own shit at the time so I didn’t know until it was too late…” he trailed off, sighing; clearly, this hurt to talk about. “I know his mom. What she did was awful, yeah, but she was just shocked, you know? Everyone thought Kouyou would come home after a few days… but he didn’t, and his family was so distraught. It was really bad. And then at some point, Keisuke— it was an accident, they left the door open. Next thing we knew it had been run over…”

Sighing, Akira looked down at his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“... I think Shima’s projecting.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think… or something like that, I can’t be sure. But I think he pretends that losing Keisuke hit him a lot harder than it actually did. It gives him something he feels like he has to do, maybe as an excuse, so he won’t have to deal with his own reality,” Akira said. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense to me. I mean, Kouyou wasn’t even there when it died, he had been missing for over a year by then. What he went through while he was gone… he doesn’t want to face it.”

“I think you’re right,” Takanori said slowly. “He said they tortured his dog, but that didn’t happen. He’s not looking for the guy who killed Keisuke, that’s just an excuse so he doesn’t have to talk about what really happened… so he lies to cover up the truth that _he’s_ the one who was— he was— sold off and _filmed_ and—” His voice broke; Akira glanced at him, but it wasn’t with concern. 

“How do you know that?” Akira said. “Did he tell you?”

“He… no, he didn’t,” Takanori admitted, taking his head in his hands. He felt the tears begin to strangle his voice, but it wasn’t enough to keep the words from leaving his mouth. “Fuck, Aki, I’ve done something really terrible.”


	35. Chapter 35

The fallout hadn’t been pretty, to say the least.

He could tell Akira had wanted to do more. Say more, maybe scream insults; hit him again, definitely — but in the end, Akira just looked at him with disappointment, like Takanori wasn’t even worthy of that. He clearly wanted to throw Takanori out onto the streets, but he didn’t. Takanori suspected he wanted to leave that for Kouyou, when he eventually returned, because that’s what Takanori deserved, to have the one he loved tell him he was worthless, that he was the scum of the earth, and to fuck off. Takanori didn’t deserve either of them. He didn’t deserve Akira’s friendship, and he most certainly wasn’t worthy of Kouyou’s love. 

_Love._ Don’t be ridiculous. Akira was right, it had been an obsession and nothing more, one that Takanori hadn’t even realized had taken hold of him so strongly… those feelings, had they ever been genuine, or had he just been lying to himself? Not that it mattered now. Done was done, and whatever Takanori felt wasn’t mutual. It never would be… and now, he was completely alone.

Akira had broken them off. When he did return, Kouyou would do the same, he was sure of it. Nobody could stay Kouyou’s friend after finding out his secrets, and there was no way he would take someone back after such a betrayal. But where would Takanori go? He had no money, no other friends. That was what he got for closing himself off from the world. The only people he could think of were Kato, as well as Shiroyama whose number had been saved to his phone, the scrap of paper long since thrown away. And they, too, were part of Kouyou’s world. It wasn’t one Takanori had any right to be in anymore.

He could beg his parents to take him back. Maybe they would reject him, and he would end up a street rat, forced to fight for survival until he was taken away by strange men who would push him into a dark world that he wanted no part in, where he would be held down and made to please the highest bidder… end up reduced to nothing but a slave in an uncaring world, just as Kouyou had been. Fuck, that was why his mother had been outraged, wasn’t it? Because she knew. She’d seen Takanori’s drawings and recognized what they were, and thought him a monster, in that moment. That’s why she hit him. Because she had been right.

Takanori couldn’t even cry anymore. His parents must hate him, they had to think he condoned that kind of shit, that he _enjoyed_ it, even drawing inspiration from watching a kid suffer through so much abuse… but how had they known? How could anyone, even _strangers_ recognize Kouyou so easily? With people like Midori and Shiroyama there was obviously more going on — Midori had been a friend, but when she found out the truth, Kouyou cut her out of his life. As for Shiroyama… that was something else entirely. He was a cop, and if the vague story he told at the bar was anything to go by he was a disgraced one. Kouyou, meanwhile, was a victim. There was definitely a story there, one that Takanori didn’t know the extent of, but he could make a guess.

_Why would he go back to that, after everything he went through?_

Closing his eyes, Takanori sighed deeply, feeling the pain pulsing in his nose and stomach from where Akira’s rage had struck. Regardless of what he did, it was most likely going to end up with him out and on the streets in the middle of November. Or perhaps it would go differently, with Kouyou’s hands around his neck. Takanori honestly wasn’t sure what he preferred. Maybe an outcome where Kouyou ended up killing him, because that was better than Takanori having to live with himself.

How cowardly. Wanting to die, instead of dealing with the shit he had created. Maybe if he could fall asleep somehow, it would help. Empty his head, make time pass and bring the end closer. He just had to stop _thinking_ so hard, had to stop spiraling further into himself before he truly went insane.

But there was nothing he could do.

It was late. Maybe he should go for a walk, or something. If he were lucky, something would happen, something that would prevent him from being able to come back, so Kouyou wouldn’t have to see him ever again. And while the idea certainly was morbid, Takanori still got up, taking a moment to stare unseeingly out the window at the dark night outside before he left the bedroom. Maybe he should leave the jacket home, intentionally forget his scarf and beanie, get himself sick. Walk through the city with nothing to protect him from the freezing cold, bloody nose and all. He must be going crazy, because the thought was oddly appealing. If nothing else maybe it would help clear his head… 

It looked so cold out there. If not for the ever-present sound of traffic, Takanori could have assumed time stood still. The blinking lights of a pulsating city alive and well even in the winter night, so vast and wide and filled with endless possibilities that all had been discarded in favor for the meek comfort of a small, safe room where he could hide away. Kouyou was out there, somewhere. Searching.

Out there somewhere, Hirai was hiding. 

Wrangling a hand in his hair, Takanori sank to his knees. He couldn’t hear anything but his own rapid heartbeat, his choked breaths, and the soft footsteps in the hallway outside before the door creaked open, still unlocked after Akira’s visit. He kept his unfocused eyes on the floor, barely seeing the tall boots dragging filthy snow past the doorstep, how they paused there before kicking into the mat to shake the snow off; Takanori only looked up at the rush of air past him, blurry eyes catching Kouyou’s form as it disappeared into the bedroom.

He stayed there, on the floor, listening to the sound of Kouyou pulling open drawers of the dresser, of him grabbing clothes and throwing them around carelessly. Kouyou was back, not saying a word, not sparing Takanori so much as a second glance. Not that he deserved it.

Takanori flinched sharply as his duffel bag was slung heavily onto the floor before his feet, snapping out of his trance and looking up to see Kouyou towering above him, his slim frame warm in his winter coat, his face, and there were his eyes; god, it was all coming back now. Swallowing thickly, he opened his mouth knowing he needed to say something, but all that came out between his thin breaths of air was a weak, “Kouyou…”

“I want you to leave.”

His voice was so cold, it stung. “Goddamn, Kou, I’m so sorry,” Takanori pleaded, reaching out with trembling arms for… he didn’t know what. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Instead of a response, the bag was only kicked forward, hitting Takanori in the knee, a wordless demand he take it and leave. Kouyou turned away, not looking at him. “Where did you go?” Takanori forced himself to say, still not moving to get up. “You disappeared, after you saw… and all this time, I had… god, I’m so sorry, I never— fuck, I never knew it was—” unable to say it he cut himself off, feeling his voice get choked by the tears that were building up, god, not again.

“Cut it out, Matsumoto,” Kouyou said. “Get off the floor.”

He should. Fuck, he knew that he should, yet Takanori couldn’t muster the energy to get to his feet from where he was kneeling pathetically on the floor, a trembling mess with teary eyes. “I didn’t know,” he said again, knowing it was hopeless. “I never did.”

“Stop with the excuses.” Kouyou’s voice was thin, a cold, brittle thing on the verge of breaking, but his eyes were steady on Takanori’s. “You don’t get to sit there and say sorry after everything you’ve done. After going behind my back for months with your _friend,_ sharing— our private moments, pictures that I specifically told you not to take… you went through my things, without permission. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out, huh?” he said slowly. “Did you really think you could continue all of that — in here, in my fucking apartment, without me knowing?” Takanori couldn’t answer, could only shake his head no, mouth dry as he watched the anger seep into Kouyou’s frame. “No? So stop lying to me. Get out. I don’t want to see you again.”

There it was. Everything he feared, everything he knew would happen, because Kouyou was finally done with him, and he knew Kouyou had every right to demand he leave, and yet… Takanori’s entire self was numb as he remained there, on the ground, and he had no idea why — everything had gone so wrong. He felt paralyzed, shivering as he shook his head no, repeating over and over, “I didn’t know, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know.” The tone was dangerous. “You didn’t know, what? That I spent two years of my life in some fucker’s sex dungeon? Is that what you didn’t know? Get the hell up from the floor, Matsumoto,” he repeated, and he was practically snarling, a rage so uncharacteristic of him taking hold as he lashed out, a heavy boot kicking out and slamming into Takanori’s stomach, the same spot Akira had punched him hours earlier — air forced out of him, Takanori hit the ground, gasping in pain as Kouyou all but screamed, “Fucking _get up!”_

It hurt. Everything hurt, but Takanori obeyed, steadying himself as he finally got to his feet, legs finally doing what he told them to. His face burned hot, heavy tears mingling with the coagulated blood on his face, but it didn’t hold a candle to the pain in his stomach. He had to force himself not to keel over, and Kouyou stepped back. Suddenly drained of all his earlier anger, his face was unreadable. If anything, he looked hollow. “Please just leave.”

So Takanori did. Reaching down, he slowly lifted the bag from the floor, careful not to aggravate the injury further. He didn’t need to look to know that Kouyou had turned away from him. 

“What happened to your face?”

Kouyou’s voice was soft, almost timid, and Takanori stopped where he was in the process of putting on his shoes, bag slung over his shoulder. With Kouyou returning, he’d managed to forget his broken nose, still covered in blood from when Akira had punched him. Reaching up he rubbed at it, feeling the pain spike as he did so. It had been well deserved. “Suzuki hit me.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t know if Kouyou was aware of their friendship. Maybe Kouyou had known all along and just didn’t care, or maybe he hadn’t. It didn’t matter now, Takanori supposed. He probably wouldn’t see either of them again, whatever their relationships had been now in shambles. But he had to _say_ something.

“I know that what I’ve done… that it’s unforgivable,” he started, uncertain. “But I swear to you… to whatever divine powers may exist, I swear on everything I’ve ever cared about, I… I didn’t know. I thought— sometimes I thought that maybe something was off, but ultimately…” trailing off, Takanori chewed on his lip. He was nervous; he was torn and defeated and absolutely crushed, and he definitely looked the part, shaky and covered in blood and tears — but beneath all that, something was still alive, deep down in him. It was fury. Turning, he met Kouyou’s dark, sad gaze. “I thought Ishida would warn me if it was something illegal. He always did, before. I thought he was… maybe not a better person, but I was stupid enough to think he would at least have the fucking _decency_ to at least give me a heads-up.”

God, he felt so betrayed, even now. He had no real right to say it, not in front of Kouyou, who had to be feeling infinitely worse than Takanori, but… 

“Ishida _knew._ He knew it all along and he never told me. Something in his head is seriously fucked up, he got so weirdly obsessed with you and fucking idolizes the guy who did all of this— fuck, I’m going to kill him,” Takanori hissed. “I swear, Ishida is going to pay. I’m going to _kill_ him.”

Kouyou remained silent, his jaw clenched tight through every word, but his gaze trailed downwards as if he was thinking of something. Just as Takanori gripped the door handle ready to finally leave and be gone from his life, Kouyou spoke, “You remind me of someone.”

His hand was tight on the cold metal as Kouyou stepped closer. “Tell me something, Matsumoto,” he said, trapping Takanori against the door. “When you say you want to kill him, exactly what is it you’re trying to achieve? Do you want to get revenge for your own sake, or for mine?”

Takanori quieted, letting go of the door handle to steady the strap of the bag instead. It was a good question. He had never truly considered Ishida to be a friend — Ishida had been too lecherous to be someone he wanted to be around, but he had still gone along with it, mostly because work had obliged him to, at least in the beginning. But then he’d met Kouyou, and Ishida had quit… but when the videos resumed, he had led Takanori down the path to obsession, letting him watch so much beautified cruelty on screen without ever saying a word about the nature of the videos. Takanori was to blame too, yeah, but if Ishida had just been honest… turning, he came face to face with Kouyou again, looking up at him. Kouyou had been wronged so, so many times through all of this, but he already had someone to be hunting for. Someone who had held him captive and ruined both his eyes and his life.

Ishida was Takanori’s problem.

“My own,” Takanori answered plainly, and Kouyou stepped away. 

“I see,” he said. “What did you do with your drawings?”

“... I threw them away.” It was true — after all was said and done, it really had been the only thing he could do. They’d gone in the bin, months of progress reduced to trash in a matter of seconds, but Takanori couldn’t stand to look at them. They were nothing but a reminder of cruelty and his own selfishness, and so they were gone. “Now that I know, I just… they make me sick. I already feel like shit with what I’ve done, so I figured…”

“I see,” Kouyou said again, softly this time, biting his lip. “Take your shoes off.”

“What?”

“Take them off. Leave your bag somewhere by the sofa, you’re staying there.”

Takanori was stunned. “Wait, you mean I can—”

“This does not mean I forgive you, Takanori,” Kouyou assured firmly. “For anything you’ve done, and I doubt I ever will. But your coworker, he _knows_ where the fucker is. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to find him? A year. And nothing.”

“... I understand,” Takanori said. “Look, I can’t undo anything I’ve done, but if you’re giving me a chance to help… then I swear, I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

Kouyou gave him a long look, then shrugged. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, finally shrugging off his boots and jacket, leaving them in the middle of the room instead of by the door. His clothes underneath were oddly pretty, Takanori noted, chuckling softly as he grabbed the outwear with the intention of putting them where they belonged. Kouyou slipped into the bathroom, and Takanori barely heard the soft call of his name followed by, “Come here. You need to fix yourself up.”

His nose looked far worse than he remembered. Tilting his head up, Takanori studied his ruined face in the mirror; his eyes were bloodshot, cheeks red and puffy from crying, and the dried blood had made a mess around his nose and mouth, as well as his chin. He looked like shit. Grabbing a cloth, Takanori ran it under the tap and dabbed it carefully onto the mess that was his face, hissing softly at the pain. It was filthy with blood when he pulled it away.

“Hey Kouyou,” Takanori tried as he rinsed the cloth. “After you left. Where did you go?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I mean… you were gone for so long, and you took all the beer when you disappeared, too.”

There was a soft chuckle. “What, did you plan on getting shitfaced while I was away? Give me that.” Grabbing the cloth out of his grip, Kouyou steadied Takanori’s face in a hand and began none-too gently to wipe the blood away. He seemed rather amused by Takanori’s attempt to stay still and quiet despite the pain flaring up at every touch. “You know, for all he likes to show off how strong he is, Aki can’t aim for shit.”

“No?”

“No.” His thumb ran across a scabbing wound, the touch almost gentle. “He should’ve easily broken your nose, had he actually known where to hit. And here, too. He knows he’s not supposed to show up uninvited at my place. Is he the one you stayed with that weekend?”

“... I’m sorry, Kou.”

Kouyou only gave a lopsided smile, and let go. “This will heal just fine on its own. Now get out of here so I can shower.”

“Thanks,” Takanori murmured, glancing at his reflection again, finding himself looking at least somewhat decent. Leaving the room, he lingered in the doorway for a moment. Kouyou unbuttoned his shirt, back turned to him — but it was enough to see the discolouring on his neck as he brushed his long hair aside, revealing deep bruises that hadn’t been there before. Takanori felt his mouth go dry. “You went back to him.”

“Don’t make me say it twice, Matsumoto.”

Lowering his head, Takanori shut the door behind him, giving Kouyou the space he needed to shower in peace. He rubbed his forehead with something akin to anger, because goddamn. Ishida was bad enough, but he had gone to Kai. Takanori cursed himself. This wouldn’t have happened if not for him, if he hadn’t driven Kouyou away, straight back into the arms of his abuser… it only made matters worse knowing that Takanori was part of why Kai had become so violent in the first place.

He had so much shit to make up for. But how could he? It wasn’t possible to go back and undo his mistakes, despite how much he wanted to… the only thing he could do, was get hold of Ishida, and make him spill the info as to where Hirai was hiding. Hopefully he would get to know exactly who Hirai _was_ while he was at it, because so far he could only guess… but Hirai was the artist, that much Takanori was certain of. Someone Ishida adored and refused to give up, even to Kouyou, his goddamn porno crush.

Slumping onto the sofa, Takanori groaned softly feeling the pain course through his sore stomach again, hearing the sound of running water from the bathroom. He needed a place to start, some options. Find Ishida, find Hirai. Simply calling wasn’t going to cut it anymore, but maybe if he went the emailing route, or had Kouyou call, pretending that he’d changed his mind. Would it work? Doubtful. Despite what Takanori wanted to think Ishida wasn’t _really_ an idiot, so he probably wouldn’t fall for that trick. What could he do? Accompany Kouyou to various outings around the city, hoping they would run into Ishida by chance? Unlikely, but not impossible. If Ishida really was a stalker, it wouldn’t be a shot in the dark. 

Then again, Kouyou would probably not be happy with such a shit plan.

Reaching for his phone, Takanori opened his contacts app, scrolling down to find Ishida’s number. Last time he had called he’d gotten nothing, but that had been hours ago. It could be worth a shot, if nothing else — but just as before, it went straight to voicemail. “Damnit,” Takanori muttered to himself. Not that he was expecting miracles… idly fiddling with his phone, he scrolled further down in the list. Maybe he should call Akira now that Kouyou was back, and pray he wouldn’t end up taking another hit.

_Shiroyama_

Seeing the name just above Suzuki, he paused briefly. Right — the man from the coffee shop, from the bar. The cop. That was where he’d had first gotten the name of Hirai from, when Shiroyama had talked about it, assuming Takanori knew. He had been saying he was betrayed, that he wanted to redeem himself to Kouyou. With his position, he had to have resources. The beginnings of a plan was coming together in Takanori’s head; he’d already told the guy about Kai, but the one Shiroyama _really_ wanted was Hirai. They had the same goal. They could use him.

Leaning forwards, Takanori typed out a message. _Important, need to talk to you. Meet with me somewhere tomorrow_

“What are you doing?”

Startled, Takanori flinched at the sound of Kouyou’s voice, finding him standing just by the couch, suddenly very close. “Fuck, sorry.” He hadn’t even heard the door open. “Trying to get hold of someone.”

Kouyou didn’t look convinced. “Is it the coworker?” he asked as he seated himself on the sofa, Takanori pulling away to make room. He was damp from the shower, clad in nothing but towels wrapped around his waist and shoulders, hair limp with water. 

“... yeah,” Takanori said slowly. “Yeah, but I think he blocked my number, I can’t reach him.” He couldn’t keep lying, not if he wanted to regain any semblance of trust after everything, but at the same time there was definitely some bad blood between Kouyou and the cop. Takanori suspected it wouldn’t end too well if he told Kouyou what he was planning. At least not until he cleared things up a bit with Shiroyama. “How did you find him?”

“Easy. Went through your phone.”

“Oh.” 

A silence spread between them, Kouyou squeezing his hair dry with the ends of a towel. Takanori shuffled the phone from hand to hand, feeling uneasy — but he had to ask.

“Hey Kouyou… why did you go back to Kai?” he tried, changing the topic. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I thought…”

“You’re right,” Kouyou said. “It’s not. But I need the money if I want to see results anytime soon.”

“They’re not changing their minds, huh?”

“Unfortunately, I have to give in to their demands for a while.” He grimaced, reaching up to rub his neck. “Most of them are useless, so I’ve cut them off… no point wasting the money on them if they won’t have anything to show for it. There’s really just one guy left, and he’s actually good at what he does, but he’s the worst. He demands I pay him in advance, so I have no choice… it won’t be for much longer. Once I get enough money, I can put an end to this.”

Takanori was quiet, keeping the phone closed between his hands, the text intended for Shiroyama not yet sent. “By this, you mean…”

“Everything.” A shrug. “First Kai, then… Ishida, I guess, if we get hold of him, and then…”

“And then finally Hirai.”

“... yeah,” Kouyou said hesitantly, glancing at him with suspicion. “Takanori, where did you get that name from?”

“Ishida told me.”

“And what else did Ishida tell you?”

“Not enough, and not nearly soon enough,” Takanori said bitterly. “He said that Hirai is the _artist_ … that he found the guy. I don’t know when, or how, or anything. I just know that he did. He told me that you— fuck, he told you this, didn’t he? That we made a deal…”

“My pictures in exchange for porn, yes,” Kouyou said bluntly, and Takanori looked away, nodding.

“Yes. There was… what he really wanted was a chance to sleep with you. It was gross and weird and I said no every time, but there was this… this video that he tried to lure me with, saying that if I just gave in I would get it, and then I’d have his entire collection. I refused, but eventually…” God, the shame hurt, and saying it out loud made him want to die; it didn’t help the way Kouyou was looking at him — with something akin to indifference. 

Takanori took a shallow breath, steadying himself. “And then suddenly he sent it anyway, after you had been gone for so long, and it was so… god, that’s how I found out that— and I knew, that you had gone to meet him. So I called him. That’s when he said it, that I should have known all along.”

“And you watched the entire thing.”

“I did… I just… I don’t even know,” Takanori drawled, sniffling slightly. “I can’t explain it, can’t excuse it, even if I wanted to.”

Kouyou nodded curtly, standing up. “It’s late,” he said. “We should sleep.” With that, he left for the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Takanori looked down at his lap, at the phone clutched tightly in his clammy hands — he had forgotten why he took it out, that he was even holding it. Flipping it open, he finally sent the text, hell, Kouyou was right; it was past one in the morning. Hopefully Shiroyama wasn’t going to get startled awake from his phone going off in the middle of the night… 

At the creak of a door, Takanori turned to see Kouyou once again, now carrying a large bundle in his arms. Placing it on the sofa, he turned back and left without a word. It was a pillow and several blankets to keep him warm in the cold night.

“Thank you, Kou,” Takanori called out just as the door clicked shut for the final time, and he lowered his gaze, curling a hand into the soft blankets because he didn’t deserve _any_ of this. “Fucking hell, thank you so much.”


	36. Chapter 36

The morning was quiet and cold. Takanori woke up early, the combination of light across his eyelids and an uncomfortable sleeping position rousing him from sleep, and he had to blink a few times, staring up at the ceiling.

Kouyou was home.

Right. 

Kouyou was home, and he had been allowed to stay. That, and he had things to take care of, like finding out a way to get hold of Ishida; Kouyou had given him a second chance — fuck if he knew why — and Takanori was not about to squander it. Getting off the couch, he slid his duffle bag out from beneath the table, unzipping it. He made a face seeing how wrinkly his clothing had become after being tossed carelessly into the bag, but he wasn’t about to complain to Kouyou for such a minor inconvenience. Even if it made him sad to see his brand new clothes all balled up and in need of ironing. 

After getting dressed, he got started on making himself look somewhat presentable; he brushed his teeth, fixed his hair, branded his rings and piercings, and went back to the kitchen to make tea. It was comforting to have the smell of Kouyou’s morning tea drifting through the apartment after so long. After the shitshow the week had been so far, it gave Takanori a sense of normalcy.

Besides, he wanted to give Kouyou’s day a pleasant start. Gods knew he deserved it. Pouring himself a cup of the tea, Takanori glanced at the door to the bedroom, considering whether or not he should do anything to wake Kouyou. Would he enjoy breakfast in bed? 

Maybe a couple weeks ago, he would have. Then again, it would probably do him good to get a bit more sleep. Kouyou didn’t eat breakfast most of the time, anyway, but hopefully the smell of fresh tea would be enough to coax him out of his room at some point before morning turned to noon. Checking his phone told Takanori it wasn’t even nine yet. Kouyou didn’t get up until at least ten most mornings…

It was a good thing he’d had the mind to put the phone on silent, Takanori decided. Four new messages and a couple missed calls. There were replies from Shiroyama, which he had expected, but there was also a text from Akira, which surprised him. After last night, Takanori had been under the impression Akira wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

_Where are you right now?_

He stared at the words for a long time, before making up his mind and making a call. It took a few rings, but Akira did pick up with a disgruntled, _“The hell are you calling me for? I’m nearly at work.”_

“Yeah, hey,” Takanori said, crossing his legs where he sat on the sofa. “You messaged me…”

_“Kouyou texted me last night, said he was home and that I should chill. That’s all he did before going dark on me again. He kick you out?”_

“Why do you even want to know?”

_“Because, Matsumoto, if you hadn’t noticed — and I know you have, after what you did — Kouyou is my best friend, even if he doesn’t tell me shit. And for all that I hate you right now… well, I was wondering if you spent the night on a park bench.”_

Takanori chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “I thought that’d happen, too,” he said, keeping his voice down. “And… yeah, when he came back the first thing he did was tell me to leave. But he changed his mind.”

_“He did what?”_

“He let me stay.”

Akira groaned. _“Why the fuck, Matsumoto—”_

“I don’t know,” Takanori was quick to say. “I honestly don’t know why, it was… first he was so angry, then it kind of deflated and he just looked so… not even sad, it was more like he didn’t even care. But I think he’s giving me a chance because I can help him.” There wasn’t a word from the other end, but he could tell from Akira’s breathing that he wasn’t happy with the news. Takanori made a face, knowing he had to explain. “You remember my creepy coworker, the one I told you about? He knows where the guy’s hideout is, apparently. I’m going to try to find him. Give Kouyou what he wants, the revenge he deserves…”

 _“And get some vengeance for yourself while you’re at it?”_ Akira grumbled.

“Ishida doesn’t deserve to walk around freely after what he made me do, Aki.”

_“Don’t call me that.”_

“Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence, and Akira groaned, sounding frustrated. _“Alright,”_ he huffed. _“Alright. So Shima’s letting you stay. But I swear, Matsumoto, if you so much as even think about fucking this up, don’t expect me to be so gentle with you again. I don’t care if I go to jail, I don’t care that I thought you were my_ friend. _You hurt Kouyou any more than you already have, I’m going to kill you myself.”_

“You had better,” Takanori said, a sad smile crossing his face. “It won’t come to that, but if it does… yeah. I won’t deserve to live, I know.”

 _“Good, at least you understand that much,”_ Akira said. _“I gotta hang up.”_

“He knows about us, by the way. I told him.”

Akira didn’t answer this time, the line going dead after a few seconds, and Takanori sighed.

Time to contact the local policeman.

 

They met up at a place of Shiroyama’s suggestion in the afternoon, at a small bar that opened early and closed late, with enough space between tables to allow for some semblance of privacy. It wasn’t exactly a high end place, but Shiroyama certainly fit in there, amongst the lonely-looking drunks who started downing their sorrows while the sun was still up. Takanori, on the other hand, stood out like a sore thumb, too young and rebellious to belong there with his bleached hair and punk-rock aesthetic.

At least the music was enjoyable enough, and it was loud enough to drown out the voices of the people around them, preventing their conversations from being overheard by anyone nearby, and Takanori tapped his foot along to the beat as Shiroyama returned to their table with two glasses, a beer for himself and water for Takanori. 

“So,” Shiroyama said awkwardly as he sat down, straightening his back to look as professional as possible in their current setting. “You wanted to talk.”

Takanori nodded. “Yeah. I wanted to ask you some question.”

“Questions,” Shiroyama muttered; he had been left in the dark, as Takanori had remained tight-lipped on what their meeting was going to be about. “Is this about the… the man you told me about, Kai?” he tried, and Takanori couldn’t help the scowl that crossed his face at the mention of the name. It was only natural for Shiroyama to assume, but the thought of Kai still left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Kouyou had left before him, of course; Takanori had watched as he dolled himself up with the clothes from the closet — _women’s_ clothing, expensive ones — and then covered his dramatic look up with a long coat and his outlined eyes with his sunglasses before leaving without a word, knowing Takanori had no right to dare say anything against it.

Shiroyama gave him a long look at the rather obvious disdain in Takanori’s face even as he shook his head no. “Actually, it’s about you,” Takanori said, reaching for his glass and pulling it to his side of the table. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you told me about what you’ve been up to since last time we chatted. Any progress?”

“On the Kai case? I wish,” Shiroyama said, and it was hard to ignore the biting tone in his voice. “I was hoping you had some info regarding that. See, it’s kind of hard to find someone when the only thing you know about them is their name. Their _fake_ name,” he paused only to take a swig from his glass, “and considering it would be in poor taste to follow Takashima around…”

“Well, you already do that, don’t see why it’d make much of a difference,” Takanori shrugged. Shiroyama frowned, but before he could get the chance to defend himself, Takanori said, “It doesn’t matter. You see, I have the same problem. I too am searching for someone that I know next to nothing about, and the reason we’re here is because of you. Because of your connection to Hirai.”

Shiroyama immediately tensed up. He chewed his lip, and reached for the glass again. “Look, Matsumoto… I understand what you’re trying to do. You’re concerned for your friend, so am I, but that’s—”

“Need-to-know only cop shit, yeah, whatever. But listen,” Takanori said. “Whatever your deal is with this Hirai guy I have no idea, but you said he betrayed you. That he ruined your career, yeah? Your life? You look like the kind of guy whose career was their everything.” He paused momentarily, giving Shiroyama a moment to nod slowly, and Takanori smiled softly, though he couldn’t help a slight rush of relief that his assumption was right. “He ruined Kouyou’s life too.”

Shiroyama sighed, letting his hand slip from the glass he had been clutching. “What do you want from me, Matsumoto?” he said, and his voice was barely audible over the music.

“Same thing you want,” Takanori said simply. “A chance at redemption.”

 _“Redemption.”_ He was rewarded with something akin to a scoff. “I’ve tried, Matsumoto, and I’ve failed.”

“So you’re just gonna give up, is that it?” Takanori leaned forward, meeting Shiroyama’s eyes and ignoring the annoyed — or sad — glare. “Look. You want Kou to forgive you for whatever happened, yeah? But you also want more. Revenge. Whatever Hirai did to you, it ruined you, and you’re angry. You hate him, it’s obvious. Kouyou hates him too, but neither of us know how to find him. We need your help, you’re a cop, you have resources. We could find him and put an end to it.” Sitting back in his seat, Takanori took a sip of the water, watching Shiroyama closely. “Help me help you, see? Bring Hirai down, and you would both get your vengeance, and Kouyou would be safe. The search is the only reason he keeps putting himself in danger in the first place.”

“It’s a lot to think about.” Shiroyama’s gaze was stuck on the table, the gears in his head working to take it all in. Slowly he looked up, something suspicious in his eyes. “And you? Where do you fit into all of this?”

Takanori tried a smile, but it felt wrong on his face, and so he swallowed it. “It’s a long story, but a guy I know… he found Hirai,” he said, and Shiroyama’s eyes widened. “But he’s gone dark on me, and I can’t contact him. So here’s the deal. I’ll tell you what I can… but only if you agree to help, and answer my questions.”

He took another sip of water, giving Shiroyama the time to consider the proposal. The man looked deep in thoughts where he sat, fingers folded on the table, contemplating. “It’s tempting,” he admitted. “It’s… I can’t deny that. Takashima, safe, and Hirai…” He drew a sharp breath, and sniffed. “But we can’t break the confidentiality. Especially not me, and not after what happened… if anyone found out, it would be career suicide, and now that I’m finally starting to be trusted again, despite everything…”

It didn’t look like it was going to work. But just as he was about to start plan B — delivering a speech that would hopefully guilt the man into giving in, Shiroyama raised a hand.

“This is crazy,” Shiroyama said, humor thick in his voice despite how sad he looked. “Crazy, and stupid, and reckless. But I need to set this right, for myself… for Takashima.” He closed his eyes, sighing, and Takanori couldn’t help the way his shoulders sagged in relief. “It’s probably for the better, anyway. Can’t remove that stain from my record. Nobody forgets, you know? The media sure don’t. It was a…” he trailed off, hand reaching for the glass of liquid courage. “Okay. Questions. Shoot.”

Takanori almost felt giddy; it was hard to keep the excitement from spreading to his face — he hadn’t actually thought that Shiroyama would agree, and he had to take a deep breath to settle himself. Questions. “First things first,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, not trusting any nearby drunkards to keep out of the makeshift interrogation despite the music. “I need to know more about you, Shiroyama. All I know is you’re a cop. How do you know Kouyou?”

There was a twitch to Shiroyama’s lips. “Work, of course,” he shrugged. “I’d made a name for myself the last decade or so, because I was efficient and fucking good at my job. Got assigned head to a missing persons case. A kid that went missing, suspected kidnapping. That was Takashima…” trailing off, Shiroyama stared into his glass, eyes dark with thought. “It took two years. Two years before I finally found him. In most cases, if the trail goes cold after a few weeks, they get left unsolved. But I refused to give it up, even after…” 

He went quiet. Takanori tilted his head to the side, trying to meet Shiroyama’s eyes to no avail. “After what?”

“After everyone else did. It had just been too long for anyone to still have hope, even his family gave up in the end.” His voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper half-drowned in the music. “When I found him he was more dead than alive, so I guess they weren’t too far off.”

Takanori shut his eyes, blinking away the images of Kouyou, blinded and tortured, dying in the dark. Of Kouyou in a bleach-white hospital room, skinny frame poking through his oversized shirt, Akira by his side with a thin smile plastered on his face to hide the grief and pity that would come spilling out if he didn’t keep the mask on, if only to keep up an appearance of strength for his best friend.

He really did regret looking at those pictures in Akira’s flat. 

“And Hirai?” he forced himself to say, hating the way his voice wavered. Shiroyama didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care, screwing his face into a grimace at the name.

“Hirai was… I knew him.” He lifted the glass to his lips again, taking a long moment to drink, before setting it down. “He was someone I went drinking with sometimes, when we both had the time. He was an artist, but he was cool and pleasant to be around, I… I liked him, or I thought I did, and then it turns out that he was a fucking bastard, a— a—” Grabbing the glass again, he banged it into the table in anger. Nobody around seemed to care about the display of aggression, Takanori noted. “The only reason I even found Takashima in the end is because I went to Hirai’s house. I was drunk and upset and angry at myself for not being able to do my job properly— and when I noticed Hirai wasn’t home, I looked around, and what did I find? A fucking hidden door to the basement. I thought it would be a wine cellar, or his atelier, or something— something not evil. Something that made sense for him to have. But I went downstairs and…” Shiroyama’s voice broke, and his face was growing red from something that wasn’t alcohol or anger. 

“It was so _elaborate_. He had everything set up, rooms in place for— there was one for processing film, one for storage, and a bedroom for… where he…” He grimaced, refusing to say the words, but the message was clear enough. “Takashima was barely responsive, I had to carry him out of there. He was too weak to walk, and he was blind. I thought the damage was permanent.”

Takanori was quiet, unable to say anything as he listened to what Shiroyama told. Fuck, no wonder he was so upset at Hirai, if he had _known_ the guy, or at least thought he did, only for Hirai to lead him behind the light for two years straight.

 _But isn’t that exactly what you did?_ a sharp voice whispered, Takanori’s own, and he swallowed thickly. It didn’t make it any better that he was here, being told all of this, without Kouyou knowing. He was letting Shiroyama spill his secrets instead of letting Kouyou be the one to tell. It was just as he had done before, before he knew, trying to find the truth by going behind his friend’s back.

Then again, Kouyou was likely never going to tell him anyway. Clearing his throat, Takanori waited for Shiroyama to set his glass down, considering his next question as he watched the man down the last of the beer.

“So if you saved him,” Takanori said slowly, “why does he hate you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Shiroyama said. He rested his head in his hand, gaze vacant. “It took me too long to solve the case, to find him, and Takashima’s condition when I got him out of that house, it was… not to mention I know too much. The circumstances of his disappearance, everything his family and friends could tell me about him before he went missing. It’s part of my job. You know him better than I do, Matsumoto, the kid’s proud. And that I saw him like that, at his lowest, when he was…” he trailed off, smiling sadly. “That alone would have been enough.”

He was right, Takanori knew. Making matters worse, Shiroyama’s presence must have been grating if Kouyou kept seeing him around everywhere, a stark reminder of his own suffering. Pressing his lips together, Takanori nodded. “This whole… incident ruined your career,” Takanori said, gesturing loosely with a hand, and Shiroyama nodded. “But you were still the one who found him…”

The smile turned bitter, and Shiroyama chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m an officer of the law. I had to report what happened, how I even knew where to look. And just like that,” he snapped his fingers in a mock display of theatrics, “my reputation was in pieces. It didn’t take long to get out that I only solved the case because I personally knew the main suspect, had known him over a long period of time, and I haven’t seen Hirai since. I was suspected in aiding him, and the whole ordeal nearly cost me my job.”

Of course. “I see.”

“I need another drink.”

Takanori didn’t stop him, watching Shiroyama grab his empty glass and head back to the bar for a refill. It was all a lot to take in, but it made sense with what he already knew. Kouyou hated other people being aware of his secrets, when they had seen too much…

There was that voice again, grating, nagging, strangling Takanori’s hope that what he was doing was for the greater good. Kouyou would despise him if he knew he had gone to Shiroyama, not only for help, but to know what Kouyou wouldn’t tell. Swallowing the guilt, he forced himself to shove those thoughts away. They would find Ishida. They would do whatever had to be done for Ishida to lead them to Hirai, and then Kouyou and Shiroyama could both get their revenge, and it would be over.

He wasn’t too sure how he would convince Kouyou to work with the officer, or how to break the news in a way that would keep Kouyou from kicking his ass out on the street — especially considering how fragile their relationship was at the moment. But he would think of something. He had to.

Shiroyama seemed brighter when he returned to their table with a freshly poured beer. Not by much, but enough for him to meet Takanori’s eyes again and ask, “What else do you need to know?”

“I think that’s enough, for now,” Takanori said, giving himself a moment to steady his voice, folding his hands on the table. “As I promised, I can tell you that… to some degree, I know how you feel,” he began, hating how awkward the words felt on his tongue. “The guy I mentioned, the one we need to find? He was my colleague.” 

 

The apartment was still empty when Takanori returned to it, a few hours after he had initially left. Part of him was glad that he didn’t have to come up with an explanation or suffer Kouyou’s suspicious glare, but at the same time he missed Kouyou’s presence, even as stilted as their relationship was. They hadn’t spoken much — he had received a small thanks for the tea after Kouyou escaped his room, and they had spent a short while discussing Ishida, and how to find him. The tension in the room had been awkward and stifling, but in the end they had decided to try out the first and most obvious plan: giving Ishida a call.

It failed, of course. Nobody had picked up; Ishida must have known better than to answer, Takanori thought bitterly. 

Not much later Kouyou had received a text from Kai. He had gotten ready in the apartment, instead of just bringing the clothes like he usually would, and the image of him all dressed up was hard to forget, despite how odd it felt to see Kouyou pulling a sleek skirt up over stocking-clad legs; because it was Kouyou, not blind boy, even if he was dressing up for the man who had been a faceless nobody for so long, who now had a name and a face and a personal tragedy.

Crouching down by the sofa, Takanori grabbed the bag, pulling out the wrinkled clothes until he found his laptop buried deep within. He hadn’t touched it, not since that last video. He hadn’t had the time nor the mind to even think about it, and then Kouyou had come home, thrown the laptop into the bag along with all of Takanori’s clothing in an attempt to rid his home, his haven, for proof of his own past suffering.

The drawings may have gone in the bin, but the files… they were still on there. Lifting the monitor, Takanori turned the laptop on, but the screen remained black, battery drained. Typical. Setting the computer back on the floor, he went to search for the charger — and he really needed to properly fold and sort his clothes out while he was at it, Takanori found himself thinking, because the way they were carelessly slung in the bag was just unacceptable.

However, for all his digging through the bag, he couldn’t find it. It wasn’t in there. Leaning back on his heels, Takanori paused, thinking back. Kouyou could have easily missed it while he was tossing his things around… and the charger hadn’t been plugged in at the time. A quick search around the living room was enough to confirm it wasn’t there, and Takanori groaned, because that only left the bedroom. 

Figures.

Slowly, Takanori got to his feet. Kouyou had been pretty clear that he wasn’t to enter his room anymore, that he didn’t belong there — but Takanori would need the charger if he was going to get any life back into his laptop. It’d be quick, anyway. In and out in less than a minute.

But upon pushing the door open, Takanori was quick to realize that would probably not be the case, because the room was a _mess._

“What the hell,” he breathed, taking in his surroundings. Clothes laid strewn about carelessly — Kouyou’s own, as well as some of Takanori’s, the closet stood open and the boxes were before it, lids off and their contents spilling over their edges. The bed was unmade, and a pillow had fallen to the floor. He hesitated where he stood in the doorway; for all intents and purposes, it looked like a hurricane had swept through the room. Kouyou clearly hadn’t bothered to tidy up after he had packed Takanori’s things, and then… he’d decided to throw his own stuff around, for some reason. A fit of reckless anger, maybe.

Not to say he had done a very good job of packing — aside from the forgotten charger, there were several pieces of Takanori’s clothing lying scattered around (interestingly, the band shirt Takanori had borrowed for bed had made it into the bag despite it being Kouyou’s), and all of his art supplies stood untouched in the crate where he had left them.

Or maybe untouched was the wrong word, Takanori thought. While everything was still there, it was all out of order, so by looks of things Kouyou had gone through the crate. Probably to see if he had been telling the truth about throwing the sketchpads away. Takanori looked away, ignoring the small stab of hurt knowing Kouyou didn’t trust him. It wasn’t like he was wrong to doubt, considering where Takanori had been not even an hour ago… though he hadn’t been lying about regretting what he had done, or throwing away the drawings. They were long gone.

He did find it a bit cruel that Kouyou would deliberately leave out the art supplies, though. That shit didn’t come cheap.

Despite his best efforts, it took longer than Takanori had hoped to find the lost charger. It had been unplugged from the socket where he last remembered seeing it and ended up pushed against a wall, and at some point a shirt had been thrown in its direction, landing on the charger and effectively concealing it from view. Crouched down, Takanori took a moment to wonder if Kouyou had hid it from him on purpose, or if it was just an accidental byproduct of… whatever had been going through Kouyou’s mind when he decided to raze his room.

Takanori was too deep in thoughts to notice the gentle sound of footsteps, but his head sapped around at the front door slamming shut and boots being unzipped and discarded. Shit. Leave it to Kouyou to have the worst timing of all.

“Takanori,” came Kouyou’s voice, laced thick with disapproval, “what are you doing in my room?”

Charger forgotten in his hand, Takanori stood up, finding Kouyou by the door, suspicion evident in his expression. “I needed to, uh,” he stammered, forgetting himself for a moment — Kouyou was in the outfit he’d left in, off the shoulder-sweater and skirt and all, though it was notably more rumpled than last he’d seen him — Takanori gestured toward the charger awkwardly as Kouyou’s frown deepened. “My laptop died,” he finished lamely.

Kouyou’s eyes went from Takanori to the charger, and he shook his head. “Get out of there,” he said, and Takanori was quick to oblige.

“I just wanted to delete the video files,” Takanori tried. “But I couldn’t turn my laptop on, and then I couldn’t find my charger, and… I’m sorry, I should’ve waited until you were back—”

“I don’t care,” was all Kouyou said, and Takanori shut up. “I really don’t. Just don’t do it again.”

It wasn’t the anger he had expected, but Takanori wasn’t sure why the sheer indifference felt so much worse. “Of course…”

Kouyou slammed the door to his room shut behind him, leaving Takanori where he stood in the middle of the living room, clutching the charger so tight it almost hurt.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you may have noticed that I've been slacking for the past month, since the last chapter was posted after three(!!) weeks where I usually try to update weekly. hopefully the posting schedule will be back on track soon enough, despite how I've intentionally delayed this chapter for a few days - first off, in order to buy more time for editing and get started on the next chapter, and secondly: as you might've noticed, today is the one year anniversary of this fic being posted! Which is kind of insane when you think about it, especially considering it isn't even done yet (oh my god it's been a year why is this still a work in progress) but hey, the plot is actually in motion now.

_I’ll talk to him._

He had made a promise. _I’ll talk to him._ In theory, it should be simple; bring up running into Shiroyama, that he offered them help. Sounded easy enough, right?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Takanori was struggling to find a way to go through with it, and over the past few days he had gone over it in his head again and again, envisioning the discussion and every possible outcome he could think of in order to break the news to Kouyou, tell him about his talks with Shiroyama, and convince him it was a good idea. It was supposed to help him plan it out, to prepare for the worst if need be, but so far it wasn’t working, with every path he could imagine their hypothetical talk taking ending in failure. All he could do was think, as he had yet to dare actually try bringing it up, knowing he’d only get one shot; not just because of how strained their relationship was, or how quiet Kouyou had become around him… but because Kouyou seemed not to care at all that Takanori was even there.

He could expect anger; ire, violence, or quiet hatred, all probable reactions to bringing in Shiroyama to their hunt for Ishida and Hirai. What he had trouble seeing was an outcome where Kouyou agreed with what he had done, and went along with the plan… but with the way Kouyou behaved around him lately, it seemed the most likely result would be little more than indifference, and that left him even more hesitant. 

Dismissal was something Takanori wasn’t sure how to deal with.

Forcing himself to look away from Kouyou’s form on the sofa, Takanori brought his attention back to the pot of instant ramen he was preparing. Not exactly an amazing meal, but it was good enough for the both of them, and also considerably cheap, which was useful for when you were busy saving money in order to find someone who’d wronged you; something that had it lead to a very sharp decline in Kouyou’s usually comfortable lifestyle. Along with the packs of instant noodles, the cheap cans of beer that lined the fridge was proof enough. That, and the fact they were disappearing at a much slower rate than usual, which meant that either it was just that disgusting, or Kouyou was actually trying to conserve booze this time.

Either that, or he had some fancy liquor stashed away somewhere for when Takanori wasn’t looking.

It was painfully obvious that Kouyou was growing tired of waiting — not that he wasn’t already tired, but now that he was so close to his goal… he just needed the money, he claimed. And it was for that reason Kouyou had practically cut off every expense, it was why he bought cheap booze and instant noodles that he barely even touched, why he had slipped out to see Kai for the second time in three days, and once he came home he’d thrown himself on the couch, put his sunglasses back on and started playing a car racing game. All while barely acknowledging Takanori’s presence.

If he hurt himself cooking, would Kouyou even bother to look his way? If he cried out, would Kouyou turn to see what was happening, only to shrug and go back to his game? Probably not. Takanori wasn’t about to find out any time soon, at least not deliberately, but despite how much Kouyou avoided him, he wasn’t cruel, and did seem to care about Takanori’s physical well-being, if nothing else. For what other reason did Takanori still have a roof over his head?

So yes. Takanori was grateful, immensely so, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being ignored. Neither did Shiroyama, for that matter, who had texted him repeatedly since their chat asking if he had gotten anywhere with Kouyou yet. The answer was no, of course, each time. He barely found the courage to talk to Kouyou about anything carrying more importance than the fucking weather, much less bring up a plan that involved reopening old wounds and barely-processed shame…

While it was probably a side effect of the cold shoulder-treatment, Takanori did find it somewhat relieving that Kouyou had stopped hiding so much, if nothing else. Kouyou no longer retreated to his room or the bathroom for privacy should the phone ring, and like before the incident with Kai and everything started to fall apart, he didn’t bother getting fully dressed anymore unless he had somewhere to be. Just as before, only his arms and legs remained bare, which was probably a good thing all things considered. By which he meant Kai — because the fresh bruises were always there, as a sliver of darkened skin on a pale neck or beneath the collar of an oversized shirt each time Kouyou moved. Markings that spelled out _you belong to me_ to anyone who should see them.

Takanori was doing a stellar job of ignoring that particular aspect of their living situation.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, setting two bowls of ramen down and tentatively taking a seat on the unoccupied side of the couch. “I mean, if you want any.”

“Dinner?” Kouyou drawled, sounding disinterested and not taking his eyes off the screen. “A bit late to call it dinner, don’t you think?”

Takanori shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, reaching for his serving of, yes, dinner, despite the fact it was nearing midnight; it’d been a while since last he ate anything. And he doubted it was likely he would get to sleep anytime soon anyway, considering Kouyou was currently in the middle of a gaming session. “It being late doesn’t change the fact that I’m hungry. And I figured you were too, unless you went to some fancy-ass restaurant with… well, and you didn’t answer when I asked earlier.”

He didn’t mention the fact that he had yet to see Kouyou consume anything other than tea or beer in the past couple days, and was genuinely starting to worry that Kouyou, who was already skinny enough, would collapse from malnutrition at some point soon if he didn’t actually sit down and _eat_ something. The fact that he was hoping it would get Kouyou to actually talk to him in the process was entirely irrelevant. 

But it seemed to be working out in his favor, as Kouyou slowly lowered the controller to his lap, pausing the game to stare at the bowl with a strange interest like he had never seen food before in his life. There was a slight twitch to his lips, and when he took his sunglasses off, Takanori really felt like he had achieved something. “So considerate of you.”

“I try.”

He could swear it was a smile he saw when Kouyou reached for the bowl, and Takanori struggled to suppress the grin that wanted to make its way to the surface. Small as it was, it was progress, and it felt like they were healing as they sat there eating a bland meal together, and even though Kouyou didn’t respond to Takanori’s smalltalk with anything more than an occasional ‘mmm’ or a nod, Takanori still deemed it victory. Anything was better than the suffocating silence that seemed to permeate their life the last few days — or Takanori’s life, at least. Kouyou clearly had more exciting ventures when he left the apartment, though that was something Takanori preferred not to think about.

Eventually Kouyou went from actually eating the food to merely picking at it, chopping the noodles into smaller and smaller bits of noodles. Finally he pushed the bowl away and resumed the game, car racing ahead on a dirt-paved road on screen.

Takanori was twirling some ramen around in the bowl without really meaning to eat it when he asked, “You into cars, Kou?” A non-committal grunt was the only reply, which didn’t answer the relatively pointless question, but he’d seen it coming. “You kinda strike me as the type to be a speed demon. With actual cars, not in the game, I mean. If you could drive. What about motorcycles? I always wanted one, when I was in high school…”

“There a point to this questioning, or are you just trying to make me lose?” Kouyou said, though there was no ire in his tone and his virtual driving didn’t waver as either of them spoke.

“Not really,” Takanori shrugged. “Mostly just trying to fill the empty air. And I’m curious. That your favourite game, by the way? Or is it new? Seen you play it a lot.”

“It’s not, and no, I got it a couple years ago.” An impressive turn, and then the car sped ahead to the finish line. Victorious music started playing as it proclaimed him the winner; Kouyou sighed, leaning back in his seat, like getting first place was a horrible burden, but then he said, “It was a gift from Aki. Didn’t play it much back when it was still new.”

“No?”

“No.” Removing the sunglasses, Kouyou stood up, bringing his bowl of mutilated noodles with him to the kitchen. Takanori was left staring at the screen, at rankings and awards and drive-by shots, ignoring the sounds of food being thrown away. The game case lay next to the console; curious, Takanori picked it up, looking over at the back, squinting to read the tiny numbers that indicated the game’s release date. It was two years old, as it turned out. Released the same year Kouyou was supposedly rescued from Hirai’s dungeon. Interesting.

According to Shiroyama, Kouyou had been blind for an undisclosed amount of time after being found. Shiroyama had genuinely thought he was blinded forever, due to not being privy to the details after solving the case and so was simply never told. But if Akira had gifted him a video game — which was a primarily visual media, then the logical conclusion was that his sight must have returned within that year. Right?

Right. That made sense. Unless Akira was asshole enough to give a game to the best friend he hadn’t seen for years due to said friend being kidnapped, abused, blinded, and left in a dungeon to rot. Akira may be a dick at times, yeah, but he was still one of the best people Takanori had ever known…

 _Look at you. Going through Kouyou’s things in hopes of solving the riddle of Things Kouyou Doesn’t Want You To Know. You must be so proud of yourself, Takanori._ Good thing Kouyou didn’t realize what he was really doing, kneeling on the floor by the console to look over the game box. “Anything interesting over there?” Kouyou said, sunglasses back on his face as he navigated the menu, and Takanori nodded.

“Yeah, a little,” Takanori said, and it took him a moment to realize he was blocking the view. Returning to his seat, he curled up and watched Kouyou withdraw from the actual racing to customize a car, swapping the rims of the tires for ones that looked considerably cooler. Painting the vehicle a shining silver, Kouyou turned the car around a couple times before changing his mind and painting it black instead. “You never answered my question. If you like cars or not.”

Kouyou didn’t look away from the screen or his hard work of adding decals to the side of the car. “They’re cool enough,” he said.

“You know, Akira has his own car, he picked me up sometimes when… we used to watch movies together. Met up when he had time, and just… chilled. That was the basis of our whole friendship, really.” He wasn’t sure why he was even talking about this. The silence felt awkward, sure, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. Kouyou didn’t answer, but there was the faint pull at the corner of his mouth, so Takanori took it as a good sign. “Movies and beer. Bad movies, most of the time. He’s got really bad taste.” When there was no reply, Takanori changed topic. “Hey, did you two ever go anywhere? Just get in the car and cruise around, or go on a road trip, or something? Sounds like something he would do. If he wasn’t always so busy with school, I mean.”

Another shrug. “Once or twice.”

His voice was quiet, but it was still an answer, and Takanori tried a smile. “You ever want to be the driver? Get a license, your own car… or you know, maybe a motorcycle — and just go wherever you want? It sounds really liberating.”

“It also sounds expensive and time consuming,” Kouyou muttered. “Aren’t we a bit too busy to be talking about this?”

“Right now, yeah, but that’s not what I mean. Could be in a month, could be in a year. It’s nothing to rush, just a— a hope for the future, you know? Besides, at some point we’ll have…” he trailed off; he was hoping the relatively mundane topic would bring a semblance of normalcy between them, so mentioning their planned murder would probably kill the relatively friendly atmosphere. He cleared his throat. “You know, done what needs to be done.”

Despite seeming vaguely interested in the prospect, the look on Kouyou’s face was both amused and sad simultaneously. “That’s still assuming a lot. You know my eyes are really bad, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Nobody’s going to let a photophobic man drive, Takanori.”

“… a what?”

“That’s what it’s called. I can’t see well in bright light.”

“…I know, but you’re getting better, right? It’s been worse. In the time we’ve known each other, I mean,” Takanori added quickly, making a mental note to check that particular word later. “You could just wear sunglasses, anyway? Nobody’s gonna stop you.”

“Like that would ever be enough,” Kouyou murmured, so quietly Takanori barely caught it. Choosing a new track, he straightened up in his seat, waiting for the countdown to start before shoving the controller into Takanori’s hands with a grin. “Why don’t you play this one?”

It was clear he found great enjoyment in Takanori’s panic at having to race out of the blue without even knowing the controls. Takanori cursed, fingers rushing to figure the buttons out while the other cars disappeared out of sight, and Kouyou only chuckled quietly to himself as he failed to make it work instead of offering help. Fine, Takanori decided as he finally managed to get the car properly moving. He deserved that for pushing so much. Sore subject.

In the end he managed to catch up and snag fourth place, which wasn’t bad for the first ever drive in a game he had never played before in his life. And Kouyou had a genuine smile on his face while talking to him, laughing with him — mostly _at_ him, especially when the car swerved and collided sharply with the surrounding architecture (who builds a track in the middle of a street, anyway?).

They played until early morning, before Kouyou eventually decided he needed sleep and turned the console off before retiring to his room, and Takanori was left in peace to make himself comfortable on the sofa as best he could in order to fall asleep. He couldn’t stop smiling, even though the nagging voice in the back of his head was telling him that _you forgot about Shiroyama again, how long are you going to drag this out?_

And so just before drifting away, Takanori made up his mind. _Tomorrow,_ he decided. _Tomorrow I’ll ask._

 

For all the cold had gripped Tokyo in the past few weeks, the day was unusually mild. It was raining when they went to Kato’s shop, dark clouds heavy with rain hanging over the city like a blanket. Kouyou had seemed in a good mood when he first woke, only to grow quiet the moment he noticed the bad weather rolling in, and now he kept staring out the window as if he was looking for something, all whilst looking incredibly tired despite getting up at noon. It was disconcerting.

Coffee was a good distraction, at least, and for all he refused to spend money on real food and drink, Kouyou wasn’t about to stop visiting his favourite coffee shop. But the pastry Kouyou had ordered for lunch (which Kato refused to let them call breakfast) sat practically untouched on his plate, a small bite taken from it before being forgotten in favor for whatever that had caught his interest outside. It was also the sweetest-smelling thing Takanori had ever come across in his life, he was sure of it, and now he was cursing himself for going for the healthier option, but Kouyou was too busy looking at the rain through his shades to notice Takanori alternating between throwing concerned looks towards Kouyou and staring longingly at his plate. At least he had actually remembered the drink, hands loosely coiled around his half-empty glass of liquor coffee that was sprinkled with two packets of sugar instead of the usual one.

It was almost like he was waiting for something.

Kato had also noticed Kouyou’s drifting attention, judging by how she kept sending small worried looks their way every now and then, and Takanori sighed, unable to stand the silence any further. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he finally said, though Kouyou didn’t do so much as blink. “You’ve been weirdly quiet for a while now. What’s on your mind?”

Kouyou hummed, tilting his head upwards as if to get a better look at the heavy clouds. “Reminiscing,” Kouyou said, finally tearing his gaze away from the windows. “There was a storm like this, a year ago. When I first found this place.”

“Really? The weather’s not so bad, even if it looks it,” Takanori said, because honestly — it wasn’t. Heavy rain, yes, but they had brought umbrellas, and there was nothing a hot shower couldn’t solve should they get soaked. He didn’t think Kouyou to be sentimental when it came to weather, but then again, the coffee shop _was_ one of the places he really felt home at, which according to Kato was why he kept coming back in the first place. “If you want my opinion, at least rain is better than snow, no question. You won’t risk freezing to death, just bring something to keep yourself dry. Which we did. Not as romantic, though… are you gonna eat that?”

A soft chuckle, and Kouyou broke the pastry in half, dropping the uneaten portion onto Takanori’s plate, earning a grateful thanks, before turning his attention back to the window. The rain was picking up, as was the wind. Far away, there was a deep rumble of thunder, and Kouyou noticeably tensed up in his seat.

Despite chewing down the ridiculously sweet pastry, Takanori didn’t fail to realize exactly what was making Kouyou so nervous. Mentally, he slapped himself, because it was pretty obvious when he thought about it for more than three seconds: storms. Lightning. Sudden flashes of light, panic attacks and an anxiety-inducing fuck in the dark. There was an incident he had not forgotten. 

Right.

Kouyou took a deep breath before deciding that it would be wiser to stare at his plate, and Takanori put the pastry down. “You doing alright?”

“Yeah,” Kouyou murmured. “I mean, I’m just… thinking on what we should do, to find Ishida. I think— once I get the money, we’ll just have to wait to get him. Jiro is good at finding people quickly. Then… it’s raining, and still bright out, anyway. Everything’s fine.”

Takanori raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but the name sounded familiar. “Who’s Jiro?”

A shaky smirk. “Manhunter.”

“Ah.” He paused, glancing out the window himself as Kouyou turned to the coffee to soothe himself — though he was probably focusing mostly on the alcohol portion. Takanori didn’t blame him. The rain was pattering against the glass, clouds looking even darker than before, the only warning before a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Kouyou’s breath hitched, but he wasn’t looking directly at the storm anymore. Thankfully.

His eyes were closed behind the sunglasses. “It’s really not so bad,” he breathed. “At least it’s raining.”

“I fail to see how rain helps any,” Takanori said carefully, unsure of the situation. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

The question went ignored. “Because storms with no rain are the worst,” Kouyou said. “They give no warning.”

Ah. “I see,” Takanori said, even though he didn’t completely understand, turning to his food again for lack of anything better to do as Kouyou discreetly turned his chair to the side so he faced the wall in case lightning struck again. The more sudden the light, the worse it would be, because Kouyou wasn’t just sensitive to light — he was _afraid_ of it. That was pretty evident, Takanori figured; the night of the rainless storm had proved as much, even if it had been too unpleasant for him to want to think about ever again.

But how, why could that even happen? Light was pretty much the most mundane thing to exist in the entire goddamn universe, and yet it caused Kouyou to freeze up and freak the fuck out, unless he was prepared for it… after spending two years trapped in a dark room, only being exposed to light whenever his captor wanted to use him and then have the gall to call it _art_ , where he would be blindfolded in every video. Eyes damaged to the point that a policeman was lead to believe Kouyou would never see again.

The picture it painted was anything but pretty. Something uncomfortable was settling heavily in Takanori’s stomach, and what remained of the pastry suddenly felt tasteless in his mouth — nauseating, almost. He swallowed it down anyway and turned to stare at the rain outside. When the lightning struck next it was far away, yet he could still feel it in his bones.

Kato brought another Irish coffee, on the house, and Kouyou would probably have drank the entire thing in one go if it hadn’t been too hot. They waited until the rain let up, the last roll of thunder too long ago and too far away to be of any consequence, and when they reached the apartment Kouyou shrugged his jacket and boots off and said, “I’ve got a call to make.”

The call, as it turned out, was to Jiro. A long conversation followed, Kouyou pacing the room and idly brushing through his hair as he talked (and argued) about the specifics of ordering someone to hunt another person down in exchange for payment. Takanori had a feeling he shouldn’t be present to listen to Kouyou talk about this, but it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. And then Kouyou turned to him to confirm whether the information regarding Ishida was correct or not, so it was probably a good thing he was around, even if Jiro refused to do anything before getting paid.

“You’ll get the money when I have it,” Kouyou promised, and that was that. 

Then he texted Kai.

Of course, Takanori was used to this by now. That did not mean it wouldn’t still hurt to watch Kouyou leave, knowing where he was going, what he was going to do, and the fact that it left Takanori alone to wallow in his own thoughts didn’t help. Kouyou’s video games proved a nice distraction for a short while, but ultimately he didn’t care much for any of them, especially not when he was playing on his own. Instead, his mind kept wandering back to the storm, to the lightning. To every time he could recall seeing Kouyou freeze up in response to a sudden bit of light in his face.

Which was what lead him to open his laptop again and skim through his purged folders to find the one video he had yet to delete, despite how much he never wanted to see it again. There had been something strange about it that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, something nagging at him to hold on to the file, at least for a little while longer. Just until he figured out what made him so hesitant about removing it. He pressed play, pushing down the revulsion in his gut as he skipped ahead to see a faceless Kai dripping ink all over Kouyou’s prone form. Shame washed over him; knowing he’d been aroused by this, now that he knew what it really was… Takanori closed his eyes. Taking a shuddering breath, he steeled himself before skipping further into the video, stopping at the scene that he was looking for, at punishment that he hadn’t understood the severity of.

It was so much worse than he remembered. There had been more important matters at hand the night he had first watched it — such as an unexpected visit, being threatened, and the crushing realizations that followed — but now it was the only thing on Takanori’s mind as he watched Kai tear off the blindfold and lift Kouyou from the ground by the collar, grabbing a lamp and shining it directly into his naked eyes. And just as he remembered, Kouyou went very, very still, like he didn’t dare move or look anywhere but the light bulb, because that was just it, he didn’t. He was frozen with fear, and still he refused to look away. Takanori wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why.

But it made sense, the more he thought about it. Kouyou’s temporary blindness must have been a direct consequence of overexposure, of being pulled from complete darkness and forced to look directly into the light, unable to avert his gaze, over and over until it practically became instinct.

_Ever stared at the sun?_

Swallowing thickly, Takanori closed the video. Finally, he permanently deleted the file; if he never had to see any of the footage ever again, it would be too soon. Hopefully he would never have to see Kai again either, but it wasn’t as if luck ever fell in his favor. And since Kai was currently… no. He strangled the thought, not wanting to acknowledge it, and opened a new window to do some research.

_…unlike what the word suggests, photophobia is not defined as an irrational fear of light (see: heliophobia), but as an abnormal sensitivity to light leading to discomfort in the eye, often to the point of pain._

Not a phobia, then, but a medical condition. In Kouyou’s case, it was both, not that he’d ever admit it. Closing the laptop, Takanori got to his feet and stretched until he could feel bones pop back into place; a wave of drowsiness had began to come over him, he noticed, and glanced out the window to see that rain had started to fall again. In the poor lighting, it looked like black paint. Or ink. Fuck, Kai. What was he doing to Kouyou? Stupid question, really, and not one Takanori genuinely wanted answered, because he knew too already. It was especially uncomfortable after seeing him in a video again, knowing Kouyou had not been a willing participant, yet went back to the man anyway. The fact that Kai paid well didn’t change what he was.

Stretching again, Takanori stifled a yawn; sleeping on a cramped sofa wasn’t exactly doing wonders for his back. But being alone with his thoughts was definitely a problem… the day was relatively young still, meaning he could theoretically do something more productive with his time, but he was beginning to feel sick. Not from the cool air and the rain, but from stress, from overthinking, and simply from physical discomfort. He hadn’t even fulfilled the promised to Shiroyama yet… that had to be done at some point before the end of the day, but right now Takanori had nothing to do, and honestly he just wanted to collapse. 

And even though he knew he should just curl up on the sofa, he found himself pushing open the door to the bedroom instead.

The place was still a mess. Nowhere near as bad as last he’d seen it, most of the clothes picked up and stuffed into the dresser, and one half of the bed was made; Takanori could weep. That was _his_ side of the bed, neat, untouched and ready for him to lie down, as though Kouyou _wanted_ him to enter and get some proper rest while he was gone, and it was all Takanori could do to but follow that silent command. Allowing himself to forget the memory of Kouyou specifically telling him not to enter the bedroom, Takanori closed his eyes, because after days of being confined to a cramped sofa the sizeable mattress of the bed felt like heaven beneath him.

Sleep came quickly and brought no dreams. One moment he was lying awake, mind drifting away from the unbelievably fucked up situation he had somehow found himself in, and the next he was being pulled back to reality by drops of water hitting his face and a feathery touch across his neck. It didn’t even tickle, less an annoyance and more something akin to a threat as the hand closed around his throat.

It didn’t press down to cut his air supply, instead settling for resting there, warm and heavy, before pulling away. He cracked his eyes open. Kouyou was hovering above him, freshly fucked but clean from the shower with his hair wet and towel slung across his shoulders, a strange expression on his face that disappeared the moment their eyes met. It twisted and turned into a half-smile. “I’m really close,” Kouyou said. “So close to having enough money to just be _done_ with it all.”

Takanori was made incredibly aware of the weight across his lap as Kouyou shifted, a naked thigh on each side of his hips. It was a familiar position. The hands wrapping around his throat were new, though, but not entirely unwelcome; they felt trying, like Kouyou was only testing it out, wanting to know how it was to have someone’s life in his hands. Just a little pressure, a hefty dose of patience, and he would never breathe again.

Takanori’s heart was beating wildly in his chest in those few moments before Kouyou withdrew, sitting back and resting his hands in his lap. “I don’t know how I want to do it yet.”

He rolled onto his side of the bed, leaving Takanori free to sit up and trail fingers across where the warmth of Kouyou’s touch still lingered. Somehow, his voice was even when he asked, “Do what?” 

“Hirai. When we find him, I don’t know what I want to do. It has to be…” he trailed off, propping his head in his hand as his gaze turned thoughtful. “Powerful. And slow. He has to suffer.”

“So you want to strangle him?”

“I’m considering it,” Kouyou said. “But first things first. Once we find Hirai we’ll have to subdue him, somehow. That’s the hard part. Jiro isn’t going to help out on that, so we will have to find a way ourselves. But whatever way he’s gonna die, it has to be slow. I haven’t spent a year of my life on this only to let him die in three seconds, Taka. It’ll need to be something that will make him understand just how badly he fucked up when he _dared_ to…” he trailed off, but his words were slow and meticulous, and Takanori couldn’t help the chill down his spine as Kouyou said, “It has to be something _intimate.”_

He had a growing suspicion he knew what Kouyou was hinting at; whatever Kouyou was implying. But he couldn’t voice his concern, so instead he tried a different question, “Why did he blind you, Kou?”

The thoughtful look disappeared from Kouyou’s face, morphing into a shallow smirk, one that read _so you know too much, huh?_ “I know you lied about the dog,” Takanori said carefully, very much aware he was walking on thin ice. “I mean, I already knew you were hiding _something_ , but the dog never had anything to do with it. You were talking about yourself.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“Akira told me.”

A blank stare. “Right,” Kouyou muttered, rubbing at his temple. “Of course Aki would tell you about shit he doesn’t understand.”

“He doesn’t understand because you don’t let him.”

“Oh, but I did,” Kouyou said. “I _tried_ to let him in. I let him see, I told him everything, and he still didn’t fucking _get_ it. Nobody ever gets it, so what’s even the damn point, if…” he stopped himself, and said through gritted teeth, “Keisuke _did_ die when I was— gone, and yes, I lied to you. But I had my reasons.”

“The reason being that Hirai kidnapped you, and you don’t want anyone to know?”

He didn’t expect a wicked smile to be the response, and Takanori involuntarily shrank back, because it was so frayed at the edges it made Kouyou look genuinely dangerous for a moment. “What if I told you,” Kouyou said, the calm in his voice clashing with the feral expression that was already beginning to crumble, “that Hirai was never the one who— as you say, kidnapped me, and there was actually someone else?”

Takanori paused. “What?”

“Keisuke was hit by a car. A driver killed my dog. It’s only fitting, considering it was a driver who ruined my life.” The grin was losing its sharpness and falling away, leaving Kouyou’s face unreadable, and he refused to meet Takanori’s eyes. “That video you got when I met Ishida? That wasn’t Hirai. He wasn’t the one who made it, but it was _for_ him, just before I was… sold off. The only reason that video exists is…” he sniffed. “Well, sometimes it’s best to try the product before deciding on a purchase.”

With that, Kouyou got off the bed to grab a cigarette, Takanori too taken aback to think to ask for one even though he probably desperately needed one by this point. He didn’t even notice the way Kouyou stared into the flame of the lighter for far longer than necessary as he lit the cigarette, because there was _another guy_. The first two videos, their terrible quality… god, that explained a lot, didn’t it? But it also left so many more questions unanswered.

“Wait, but if there was someone else, why are you only focusing on one of them?”

Kouyou settled to stare out the now open window as he took a slow drag to hide the slight shake of his hands. “The guy got caught with drugs a while back,” he said. “His place got ransacked, and they found evidence of human trafficking. Including footage of me.” He chuckled, leaning against the wall, fingers tracing the side of his ribs, across the thin fabric of his shirt. “Safe to say, I don’t have the ability to break someone like that out of prison. I can’t get rid of him either, stage a murder, anything like that. I tried. He’s untouchable.”

Fucking hell. 

“So no contacts in the force?”

“Nobody I know is capable of that kind of shit, no.”

“I see,” Takanori muttered; he was probably talking about Shiroyama, which meant this was probably not going to be a good idea, but Takanori had made a promise, and he would see it through. “You know, I think I have an idea on what to do with Hirai once we find him,” he said. Sure enough, that caught Kouyou’s attention, and he actually looked hopeful for a moment there, before Takanori continued, “We could always just shoot him.”

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the hope was extinguished, and Kouyou shot him a disbelieving glare. “Does it look like I have a gun?”

“Of course not,” Takanori said. “But you know someone who does. A policeman who wants to fix the mess he’s made…”

And it only took a split second for Kouyou to throw up his walls again, the change from exasperated to steely so sudden that Takanori didn’t dare continue his argument. “So that’s how it is,” Kouyou said slowly. “You’ve been chatting up Shiroyama.”

The ice was cracking beneath his feet, threatening to give away if Takanori didn’t tread carefully. It would only get worse if he tried to deny it. “I have,” Takanori said, standing from the bed so they would be on level ground. “I know what you think, but he’s not your enemy, Kou. He’s… really pathetic, yeah, and feels incredibly guilty, but we can use that. I really think he would do anything if it means you’ll forgive him—”

 _“Forgiveness.”_ The word was practically snarled, and Takanori immediately shut up. “What’d he tell you, some sob story about how he had the carpet pulled away from under his feet because he happened to have met Hirai once or twice? Why don’t you go back to him, Matsumoto.” Kouyou was coming closer, eyes narrowed and filled with an incredible fury, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “Why don’t you go back and ask him about the parts he left out. The things Shiroyama kept from you because he knows he fucked up, and he _knows_ you won’t be so sympathetic if you find out what happens when a cop _doesn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”_

Slowly, Takanori backed away, a hand raised defensively. “I don’t…”

“Oh, but of course you don’t understand. Go to him, Takanori, and ask why he didn’t tell you about the _scandal.”_ And in two long strides he closed the distance between them, roughly pushing Takanori out the door before slamming it shut in his face.

He stared blankly at the door for a moment, heart beating wildly and mind racing. Then he moved to pull out his cell, dialing a number before pressing it to his ear. On the other line there was a confused _“Matsumoto?”_ and Takanori grit his teeth.

“You and I are going to meet up somewhere, right now, Shiroyama. We need to talk.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you may have noticed that hey, these chapters have been pretty long lately, what's up with that? and you would be correct. since this is chapter 38 (!!) and there's still a bit to go (????) I'm aiming for longer chapters in order not to end up with an eventual 50+ chapter story because hey, you need to draw the line somewhere. an unfortunate side effect of that being longer wait between each chapter, but I'm still trying to stay on schedule, which is still once every two weeks, max.
> 
> anyway. exposition!! sadness!!
> 
> :(

For all he was determined to get answers, Takanori couldn’t deny the nagging nervousness that was leaving him shaken. It was a dangerous word, scandal. It implied so much more, that whatever the cop was keeping to himself had potential to lay waste to everything — and Kouyou had been so angry, as if he personally blamed Shiroyama for what had ruined him.

Takanori made sure not to let it show, though. He’d told Shiroyama to meet up by Kato’s, but he didn’t plan on staying there. The interior was much too crowded, what few people were out and about seeking shelter from the downpour in the cozy shop, unable to resist the tempting combination of warmth and freshly brewed coffee as they waited for the heavy rain to let up. Once they saw each other, Takanori led Shiroyama away from her shop and towards a rundown café long gone out of business in a corner a few blocks down, close enough that it would only take a few minutes to get back, but remote enough that nobody would be around to listen in. Most importantly, the awning was still up.

Getting beneath the bit of roof to escape the rain, Takanori closed the umbrella, starting what he suspected would be a long and dreary talk as simple as he could.

“So I did as I promised,” Takanori said, watching Shiroyama pull down the hood of his raincoat. “I talked to Kouyou. Mentioned how you’re probably better equipped to deal with the situation than either of us will ever be, so you could come in handy. That he shouldn’t dismiss your offer just because he doesn’t like you.”

It was a good thing Shiroyama knew better than to expected pleasant news. “And what did he say?”

“A lot more than I thought he would, actually,” Takanori started, careful not to let the distaste creep into his tone. “For example, he told me it wasn’t just Hirai he had gone after. Did you know there was another man?” With the way Shiroyama guiltily turned his gaze down, silence was answer enough. Takanori groaned. “And you didn’t think that might be kind of an important detail?”

Shiroyama sighed. “Look, you were the one asking the questions. And I didn’t think it would matter. He committed his crimes, he got caught, and is serving his time…”

“And I’m sure Kouyou’s real happy about that,” Takanori muttered, shaking rainwater from his closed umbrella with slightly more force than necessary. “He referred to him _the driver_. The man who kidnapped him in the first place. Was there anyone else, Shiroyama? Any other people you happen to have forgotten to mention?”

“No,” Shiroyama said, shaking his head. “At least not in the way you’re thinking.” Takanori raised an eyebrow, eyes flashing dangerously, and Shiroyama added quickly, “I mean, there are more men that we were never able to identify, with the exception of one…”

“I swear to fucking god, Shiroyama—”

“Again, not what you think. In the video footage, men like the one you told me about, Kai. They were always masked, always anonymous, so we’re clueless as to who they are. The one exception being Saji’s… that’s his name, the man who abducted Takashima,” Shiroyama said. “He didn’t bother to cover up his client’s identity.”

“Client?” Takanori questioned. “I thought that video was for Hirai?”

“It was, but Saji isn’t the type of guy to miss out on a chance to make money. He already had Takashima, Hirai’s offer was just a way for him to… we know what happened between them. Hirai contacted him, gifted a camera and asked for a— a _demonstration,_ with the promise of a hefty payment should Saji deliver, which he did. All he had to do was leave the camera rolling.”

The pieces were coming together, and the image they made was an ugly one. Takanori frowned; he had a feeling he’d regret asking, but he had to make sure he understood what Shiroyama was saying. “Shiroyama, exactly why did he take Kouyou in the first place?”

“I figured you knew, since you said Ishida showed you the footage… then again, it was circulating the deep web for a few years before we found out and got it taken down. But he had already been doing it for some time, snatching teens — usually runaways, tricking them into feeling safe so they would talk to him, so he’d get to know them before…” Shiroyama was staring blankly ahead, working on finding the words to describe exactly what that man had done in some way that would be politically correct, but in the end he just frowned, fidgeting with the cigarette box poking out of his pocket as he said, “To put it bluntly, Saji was in the business of selling virgins.”

Oh.

Something deep and wretched settled in Takanori’s gut at the words, as the realization hit him, facing him with the reality of something he had long since known but refused to think about. He had just been sixteen. He’d just been an angry kid with an asshole boyfriend he didn’t want to submit to sexually because he was scared.

Fucking fuck. It wasn’t enough this guy had kidnapped him, he’d done it in order to _sell his virginity_. No wonder Kouyou wanted to kill the man himself.

“Fuck,” Takanori swore, because save for smashing the windows in the abandoned café in a fit of horrified rage, it was all he really could do.

“At least you should know that the man who did it got what he deserves,” Shiroyama said slowly, as if he thought Takanori would find it comforting. “It only took a few months to identify the man and arrest him once we discovered the tape. Neither he nor Saji will be walking free any time soon.”

“Yeah, and all the more reason for Kouyou to hate you, since it means they’re out of his reach,” Takanori muttered. The man who’d first taken him, imprisoned. Someone who paid for Kouyou’s virginity. Takanori wasn’t sure if he was glad to know the man was in jail, not after what he had seen, having watched the act itself, and the aftermath that left Kouyou bloody and beaten… Takanori clenched his fists, unable to process the rage that coursed through him. That man didn’t deserve to live any more than Saji or Hirai did. Yet he had only been one of many, Takanori knew. Kai was one, but how many more did Hirai involve in his so-called ‘art’? How many masked men had violated Kouyou and walked away without ever answering for their crimes? If even the police failed to identify them… they could be _anyone._

A scandal.

He shut his eyes tightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know, I have this sneaking suspicion you’re still being dishonest with me, Shiroyama.” A grimace crossed Shiroyama’s face, something that tried to be a smile but twisted itself into a frown. “Kouyou knows you better than you claim. He hates you more than you want me to think, for more than you want me to know, which makes me think the reason you decided not to tell me is that in this whole fucked up mess, something is directly _your_ fault. So Shiroyama,” he growled, “please go ahead and tell me about this _scandal_ that I’ve heard so much about.”

Takanori couldn’t claim he wasn’t nervous, not after Kouyou’s outburst, one aimed at the man in front of him — a man who had done something deemed scandalous; something that led Kouyou to think that whoring himself out to pay for deals made with dangerous strangers who cared for nothing but cash was a better strategy for finding Hirai than accepting Shiroyama’s help, all because he blamed him for… Takanori didn’t know. But he had some suspicions, as he watched Shiroyama draw a cigarette from a pocket and light it either in an effort to stall answering, calm his nerves, or both.

It was probably both. “This is all Hirai’s fault,” Shiroyama said between short puffs of smoke, “but you already knew that, because you’re right. He ruined my career. Kouyou’s life. Everything, just as you said, he… he never…” Voice cracking, Shiroyama took another deep drag to still himself, before dropping the cigarette to the ground despite not even smoking half of it. “The things he made me do, Matsumoto. He used me. He lied to me, used me for his own gain, and then let me take the fall for it, and…”

“You keep calling it that,” Takanori cut in, frustrated, because Shiroyama wasn’t being straightforward. “‘It’. Keeping it vague, like you don’t want me to know. But guess what? It’s not doing either of us any favors, so quit dancing around and trying to hide it from me, Shiroyama, exactly what did he…”

 _He used me,_ Shiroyama’s voice echoed in his head, and something in Takanori’s brain short-circuited.

The nag of something unforgivable made its way to the surface of his mind until it was the only thought he could hear, loud enough to drown out anything else, because despite the deep pit of dread in his gut it made _sense_. Every single man had worn some kind of mask. They were all rendered faceless, their voices and moans and grunts distorted and turned anonymous just like everything else that could suggest their identity. It could very well be true. It was the perfect scandal.

“No,” Takanori breathed. “You didn’t.”

Shiroyama was lighting another cigarette, and Takanori was vaguely aware of the way he was staring as if in shock, eyes wide open because this man was… he could be one of them? Some fucked up individual who felt bad for what he’d done and wanted to redeem himself?

He barely even noticed that Shiroyama had pulled out another cigarette and held it towards him as a peace offering. No, that couldn’t be it. Takanori had to be overthinking again, misunderstanding, drawing the wrong conclusion because he was great at thinking the worst of everyone but himself, and Shiroyama was giving him a puzzled look, lowering his arm slowly, crestfallen. 

And then, some sort of realization dawned on him. “Wait,” Shiroyama uttered, “do you think I— that Hirai made me—” And then he had the nerve to _laugh_ , though it sounded more desperate than anything. Takanori didn’t bat an eye, still staring with some sort of half-terror, because he didn’t know what to think anymore. “No,” he said, any trace of amusement gone as quickly as it had come. “No, you’re wrong. That never happened. He never involved me in…”

Leaning back, he rested against the wall of the abandoned café. “I gotta give it to you, you’d make a good cop with how quick you are to jump to conclusions.” He seemed to be staring at the rain that fell heavily against the awning, something haunted seeping into his expression. “But maybe you aren’t too far off. If it had been different, if I got too close, then maybe Hirai would have made me do it. He could have… he knew me too well. He could have tried to blackmail me, or something. I didn’t know it then, because I trusted him. I…” 

Trailing off, he looked away, blinking furiously as if there were tears gathering in his eyes. “But you were right, I haven’t been honest,” Shiroyama said, looking at the unlit cigarette still in his hand, like he had forgotten it was there. Takanori said nothing, only plucked it from his fingers, accepting the flame of the lighter before Shiroyama continued. “The timing was too perfect. Hirai was the one who approached me, just after I had been assigned to the case, I should have known better. But I didn’t… we drank together. We became _friends,_ I liked him, I _trusted_ him— and eventually, I… Hirai knew what he was doing. He took me out, made me comfortable and listened to me complain about my life, my job. I thought he was a saint because he didn’t mind my whining, but he was doing it on purpose. He was using me, and because I never suspected anything, I _told him_ too much.”

Despite how angry Takanori knew he should be, all he could feel was a strange sense of regret. “You told him about the case?”

Shiroyama nodded. “He liked to get me drunk and he’d talk so smoothly I never even realized, before I knew it he had so much confidential information, because I was frustrated and wanted to vent. Because he was my best friend, and I trusted he’d keep it to himself. But all along, he was just… he was using me. The things I told him kept the police off his heels, and Takashima could’ve been found earlier if I didn’t tell him what we had and… he learned to avoid the law because of me. He had that poor kid that people were counting on _me_ to find for _two fucking years_ because I got emotional and was stupid enough to tell him, and—” Sniffling, Shiroyama stopped himself, angrily wiping a tear away with the back of his hand. “And then one night, Hirai calls me, wants me to come over just as I’m minutes away from calling up the chief to say Takashima is a lost case, that he’ll never be found. And then I find him there, in Hirai’s basement, lying half dead in the corner of a dark room— it wasn’t even locked,” Shiroyama said, voice rising with disbelief. “The room wasn’t even _locked.”_

Takanori drew a slow breath, brows furrowing. “He gave him to you,” he concluded, “just as you were giving up?”

“At first I was hailed a hero, you know,” Shiroyama said bitterly. “But when it got out that Hirai had been my friend, that I had told him so much shit and… it blew up. You couldn’t go a day without seeing it on the news somewhere. Some claimed I’d deliberately aided Hirai, that I had known all along, others called me incompetent… and Takashima was at the center of it all. The real reason he hates me isn’t just that I failed to find him sooner, or that I trusted Hirai without knowing who he really was, Matsumoto. It’s because of me that everyone knows what he went through.”

Dropping the cigarette to the ground, Shiroyama’s face twisted into a mockery of a smile, and he stomped the cig out roughly despite the puddle it’d fallen into; Takanori took a small step back to avoid the splattering water. “Cases like these are rarely solved, and even when they are, they largely remain private. But because of me, it became a scandal. Because of me, the media told the world everything they could get their hands on about Takashima, about what he suffered for so long… but even then, he still gave me a chance,” his voice was small, close to breaking as he said, “and I fucked it up. I couldn’t find Hirai, I couldn’t do anything about Saji. I really am useless.”

The rain was beginning to let up, the constant pattering against the awning becoming softer, quieter. Takanori played with the cigarette, unsure of what to say, before letting it drop to the ground into one of the many shallow puddles of rainwater collecting in holes in the pavement. “But you got to keep the job, didn’t you?”

“After a year of being let off and getting taken to court, losing the respect of all my coworkers, and getting demoted, yes,” Shiroyama chuckled mirthlessly. “I guess I did.”

“You’re still an officer, right? It’s something.”

“At least I know it could have been worse now,” Shiroyama said, a half-smile on his face that was miles from reaching his eyes. “At least Hirai never decided to involve me in his…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence; Takanori was definitely regretting that particular train of thought, and he grimaced. “Yeah.”

“They gave up on him, you know.”

“On Kouyou? Yeah, I know.”

“No,” Shiroyama said. “On Hirai.”

Takanori paused. “What?”

“It’s been over two years since anyone has heard from him.” The words were quiet, Shiroyama gazing melancholy out at the gentle rainfall. “I was the last person he’s known to have spoken with. When I found Takashima. After that, he disappeared and went completely into hiding. Apparently we can’t afford to waste any more resources, since we’ve come up empty so far…”

“What the fuck kind of bullshit is that,” Takanori said, shocked. “He’s a— they know what he did! Who he is, what he put Kouyou through, they can’t just let all that slide, they can’t just— give up.” 

_They can’t just let him go, like they gave up on Kouyou, how they left him to die._

The words went unspoken, but Shiroyama understood. “That’s what I said, not like anyone listens to me. So I decided to try Takashima again… if only to apologize for how useless the department is. He doesn’t want to listen.”

“So that’s why I keep seeing you around lately?”

“I fucked up, Matsumoto,” Shiroyama said, “I fucked up big time, the whole country knows it. Takashima won’t give me another chance, but please, if there is something, anything that I can do that might help keep him safe — just tell me. Please…”

He was pleading, begging for some way to redeem himself, and Takanori should have been unnerved by the display, but all he could really feel was pity. This man had been through his own hell, he’d fallen from grace and wanted so desperately to get back on his feet, but he couldn’t do it, not alone. And he would never forgive himself for the mistakes he had done…

“Okay,” Takanori said, nodding. “You just… keep looking for Ishida, and for Kai, if you can. I can’t think of anything else, but I’ll call if something happens, alright? I can try to talk to him again. Probably won’t make much of a difference, but…”

Shiroyama didn’t mind; in fact, he looked about ready to hug him. “Thank you, Matsumoto.”

“But dude, if I find out you’ve been dishonest with me again—”

“I’ve not,” Shiroyama cut in. “I swear, it’s the truth.”

The rain had practically stopped by now; Takanori looked out towards the quiet street that was gradually growing darker, sun having begun to set. “It had better be.”

 

He had to take a walk to clear his head after they parted ways. Give himself some time to think and process the information Shiroyama had given, the facts standing out clear as day. Scandal. That’s why Takanori’s mother knew. Why she lost her mind when she looked through the sketchbook and saw blind boy, Kouyou, a kid who had been abducted and held captive by a cop’s best friend. She was always following the news, always watching the world through the media, keeping a careful eye on what was going on around her. Something like a police scandal would not let her slip by, even if the story hadn’t been constantly blasted everywhere for quite some time, if Shiroyama was to be believed, yet Takanori had turned away, deciding ignorance was the way to go, focusing instead on himself.

It was a good thing Takanori had smokes in his jacket, else he might end up having a breakdown in the middle of the street. He couldn’t deal with his thoughts, all the guilt and shame bubbling to the surface and smothering him… at least he knew how Shiroyama felt. He wondered if the man would be so eager to talk to him, if he knew the extent of what Takanori had done.

Of course Takanori hadn’t told the entirety of his own crimes. As far as Shiroyama knew, Ishida was just the insistent asshole Takanori had known from work, like how it used to be before everything spiraled out of control. The weirdo who sent him porn on the weekends whether he wanted it or not. Shiroyama didn’t know how Takanori had become smitten with them, that he’d sought the files out, traded them for pictures and info. He didn’t know about the drawings. Hopefully he never would.

Hypocrite. So determined to know the truth, yet he kept his own secrets close to his chest, lying by omission because he didn’t want Shiroyama to know what he had done. Takanori had been sober, and he had gone behind Kouyou’s back time and time again knowingly. He’d never been aware of the abduction, that Kouyou wanted no part in it, that he was blinded and forced — but if Takanori had opened his eyes, if he had paid attention to the world around him instead of shutting himself away into his room back home, then… none of this would have happened at all.

He only had himself to blame.

It wasn’t long before he found himself back in the apartment. Takanori was expecting to be met with darkness once he opened the door, to find Kouyou still barricaded in his room, but to his surprise the dimmed lights were turned on and Kouyou lay sprawled across the couch. He turned his eyes on Takanori as he stepped inside, but otherwise did nothing. He just stayed there, staring as Takanori removed his outerwear, but the gaze was distant, unfocused. Like he wasn’t looking at Takanori so much as right through him, waiting for him to say something.

Takanori bit his lip. He _was_ the one who had to say something, didn’t he?

“So I know about the scandal,” he started awkwardly. Kouyou was still staring his direction, calmly, unblinking, and Takanori shifted his weight. “It… it wasn’t what I was afraid of, but I get why you’re so angry.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“I didn’t know what to think.”

“Oh, but I know you, Takanori. You overthink everything, it’s what you’re good at.” He sounded almost indifferent, despite the small smirk stretching his lips. “Did you think he fucked me?”

Takanori opened his mouth, meaning to protest, but stopped himself. “Did he?” he asked, though he didn’t know if he wanted Kouyou’s answer. He didn’t want the tired grin on Kouyou’s face as he threw his head back against the cushion and stared up at the ceiling.

“Maybe he did,” Kouyou said, “maybe he didn’t. How could I have known? It’s not like Hirai allowed me to see anything…” The mirth was dying from his expression, a hand reaching to scratch at his side. “It’s not like I ever knew who they were. I would have gotten them by now, or police would have, considering how many times they tried to interrogate me… grilling me for answers I never had.”

The tone was calm, despite the anger underlying his words; Kouyou wasn’t exactly being helpful, but Takanori knew better than to expect straight answers. “Shiroyama seemed honest.”

“Hmm.” He was still staring out at nothing, lips pursed in thought. “What did he say about Hirai?”

“That they were friends,” Takanori said. “That he told Hirai about… and he blames himself for it.”

“Good. So he knows better than to lie,” Kouyou concluded, and Takanori let out a relieved breath as Kouyou got to his feet and walked towards the fridge, grabbing a beer. “Shiroyama does love to talk, it’s one of his fatal flaws. I guess you know everything now.” He was opening the bottle on the counter, cap snapping off and clattering against the polished wood. “Lucky you.”

The conversation fell closed with that, and Takanori took a seat on the now empty sofa, watching Kouyou grimace at the cheap taste, reaching for the remote of the television for lack of anything better to do. He turned it out after a short while, though, mind wandering as they half-heartedly watched some show together on the couch. 

It took Takanori a long while to understand just what Kouyou was saying.

 _Why don’t you go back to him, Takanori. Why don’t you go to Shiroyama and ask…_ Kouyou was too proud — or perhaps too scared — to tell the truth, so instead he disguised it as anger and pushed Takanori away, telling him to ask the one person he knew would be unable to hold back, who wouldn’t dare to lie.

“I don’t get you, Kouyou,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I really don’t. Why now? Why do you suddenly let me in on your secrets, after shutting me out all this time?”

Kouyou didn’t miss a beat. “Wondering what it’ll take to chase you away.”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it,” Takanori said, frowning as Kouyou’s faint smile turned dull, focusing on the dim television and refusing to meet Takanori’s eyes. “Despite everything I’ve done, you still keep me around. You still let me stay here, you let me join your search, even though I… even though I don’t deserve any of it. And yet…”

Grabbing the remote again, he turned the television off, and Kouyou sighed as Takanori turned his full attention on him. “And yet you despise Shiroyama, who didn’t knowingly do anything wrong, unlike me. I knew there was something off. I _knew_ I was being an asshole, and I didn’t stop because I— because I was selfish and liked it too much…” he bit his lip, hating the way his voice was cracking as he stated his own fuckups. “If you can forgive me, despite all of that, then why not him?”

“It’s funny how nobody gets it,” Kouyou drawled, “even when it’s shoved right in their face. I haven’t forgiven you, Takanori,” he said, “I doubt I ever will.”

Even if he knew it was for the better, Takanori couldn’t hide the stabbing hurt, but he was left puzzled. “I don’t understand. What is it that I don’t get?”

“That I’m beyond the point of caring. And despite what a prick you always have been, yes — you are still my friend, and your company is still better than nothing. A year is a long time to spend alone, Takanori.” He seemed almost amused at the blank look Takanori shot him, at the clear confusion. “It’s hard to make new friends when everyone you meet already think they know you.”

Friendship. It was so simple, and at the same time it made no sense at all. “What about Akira?” Takanori asked, “What about _Midori?_ She was your friend too, and you pushed her away.” When Kouyou only scoffed, he pushed further; “She worried for you. I met her a few times before she left, she loved you, Kouyou.”

Kouyou wasn’t having it. “Midori never _loved_ me,” he said. “We were never that close. She didn’t care for me that much. Then one day she watches the news and sees _me,_ sees that poor kid Takashima who was missing for years and she thinks, wow, I know that guy, don’t I? He must be hurting so fucking bad,” he spat. “Midori didn’t see me as her friend. She tolerated me because she thought I was interesting enough, and once she found out who I am she looked at me the same as everyone else, with pity. I’m not a _person_ to them, Takanori. I’m just something people can feel sorry for.”

“Then why am I still here?” Takanori said softly, “why am I allowed to know, if nobody else can?”

“Because you’re selfish.” He took a swig of the beer, scowling at the taste. “You know who I am, but when you look at me all you see is your own mistakes staring back at you. You look at me with regret and with anger, Takanori, towards yourself and towards Ishida, and you are too selfish for pity.” Draining the bottle, he set it down on the table, eyes steely as he turned to Takanori. “That is why I keep you around. Shiroyama? Yes, he means well, but I want nothing to do with him, so forgive me for not wanting to spend time with someone who helped ruin my life.”

“Then why did you go back to Kai?” Takanori exclaimed, “I don’t understand! Kai is one of the assholes who fucking _raped_ you, Kouyou, and you continue to let him do it because you need _money!?”_

Kouyou bristled visibly, but kept his calm. “Kai is just a means to an end,” he said slowly, “and he’s an asshole, yes, but he actually _understands_. That’s all there is to it. We’re using each other for our own benefit, and he gives me what I need along with the money, and he’s okay with it.”

“What else?” Takanori asked, because he had to know. “What else does Kai give you but money, Kouyou?” 

But Kouyou didn’t answer, instead grabbing the empty bottle from the table and standing up, looking almost… disappointed. “I already told you once,” he said. “You didn’t get it then, and you won’t get it now.”

“Kouyou, please…”

The bottle hit the bottom of the kitchen sink with a loud clang, effectively shutting Takanori up. “What?”

Takanori hesitated at the sharp tone, but continued anyway. “There has to be a better way to find them. It doesn’t have to involve Shiroyama, it doesn’t even have to involve me, just— something safer, someone that doesn’t… Kai isn’t good for you, Kouyou, you must know that.”

“I don’t care how much you think he hurts me,” Kouyou said dismissively, “none of this is about Kai, it’s not even about me! Kai is just the quickest way to get Jiro his damn money—”

“But what’s the rush? If you’ve waited this long already, why are you only losing your patience now?”

“That’s just the thing, Takanori. I’ve wasted enough time, enough money as it is, and look where that got me. Absolutely nowhere.” Sighing, Kouyou rested against the counter, long hair falling into his face. “I tried to play it safe, at first. I tried Shiroyama, and he failed me. I’ve tried countless people, all of them useless. Jiro is… he’s the best in the business and he knows it, so his prices are sky high. He’s the only one who has actually promised me results. But Jiro has a deadline, and if I don’t meet it, I’ll never…”

“Then you think you’ll never find Hirai at all,” Takanori finished.

“I can’t let him go, Takanori, not after what he did to me. He didn’t just…” trailing off, Kouyou brushed the hair from his eyes. “Hirai didn’t just take those years away from me, my sanity and body and… he destroyed me, Takanori. Every part of me, he’s ripped away everything I ever loved. My friends, my future— I can’t even listen to music anymore, because I’m so fucking numb that I don’t _feel_ anything.” His voice was breaking, legs giving out and body crumpling to the floor, eyes staring listlessly at the dimmed lamp in the ceiling as Takanori rushed to his side, “I can’t feel a goddamn thing, Taka, and I _hate_ it.”


	39. Chapter 39

Getting Kouyou off the floor was easy. All Takanori really needed to do was tug at his arm as gently as he could manage, and Kouyou followed, almost as if on autopilot. Figuring the best course of action was to get him to bed, Takanori led him to the bedroom, not surprised when Kouyou reached out to pull Takanori down with him; despite the wrecked state of their relationship, Kouyou obviously didn’t want to be alone, and a mental breakdown didn’t change the fact that he still had some strength in him. Takanori wasn’t about to complain. He had a lot of shit to make up for, and he was the one who had brought this on in the first place, having kept prodding, pushing Kouyou to tell him anything, whether Takanori deserved to know or not.

Well, now he knew, and there was so much blood on his hands. This broken, apathetic mess that was his dearest friend was the product of Hirai, an artist whose works Takanori had spent months obsessing over because he was a selfish fucking prick, unwilling to give it up until he could no longer deny what it truly was. If he could, Takanori would easily withdraw to dwell in his own self-hatred, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave Kouyou to stare blankly into the darkness alone instead of the way he lay now, face hidden in the crook of Takanori’s neck, breathing calmly against his skin.

Despite it all, he seemed to find Takanori’s presence comforting, and Takanori would be damned to leave him alone.

“I’m sorry,” Kouyou whispered after a while, moving just enough to allow for him to speak, “I’m really pathetic.”

Takanori shook his head, running a hand soothingly through the long, blond strands, “No, don’t say that. None of this was your fault.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, did you want Hirai to do any of this to you?” Takanori asked, even as Kouyou sighed and pulled away. “Did you tell him to? Hell, did you make Saji abduct you? It’s not your fault. All of that was their doing, Kouyou, you can’t blame yourself.”

“I might as well have.” Sitting up, Kouyou drew his knees close to his chest. “You know, the driver— Saji… he didn’t make me go with him, he never forced me into that car. I went willingly, because I was angry, because I had no money, and Akira had told me no and I just wanted to get away…” Covering his face in his hands, Kouyou took a deep breath, choking the sob that was trying to push its way up his throat. “Because he— my ex, the one I told you about, he was right _there_. He looked straight at me, like he wanted to say something, and I got into that damn car just to avoid him.”

“Kou…”

“I wanted— I just wanted to go to Tokyo, like we had planned, but then mom was so angry and Akira didn’t know, he didn’t understand because it was _years_ too soon and I hadn’t told him anything. I just showed up at his doorstep and asked him to come with me, like I was expecting him to say yes. I was stupid, but I felt like I had nothing else but that one plan… it was the only thing I could think of, get to the city and—”

“And chase your dreams, right?” Takanori interjected. Kouyou nodded slowly, a sad smile forming. “I know you and Akira were in bands together. I talked to him about that kinda thing once, took me a while to realize he was talking about you.”

“Sometimes I wonder why you even put up with me,” Kouyou murmured, “since all I’ve ever done is lie to you.”

“Like I’m any different.”

That earned a soft laugh, small as it was. “I’ve spent so much time, thinking about what I did wrong, what would have happened if I didn’t get into that car,” he said. “I spent two years with Hirai, just waiting for it all to end, and it never did, even now, I still…” Kouyou bit his lip, looking down at his hands. “I’ve lost everything. My eyes, my pride. I couldn’t finish school, learn to drive, make music, all the things I was looking forward to, all because I made a stupid, impulsive decision… they stole my future, Taka. They took _everything_ from me. But I can’t allow myself to regret any of it.”

He ran slow fingers through his hair, and if he was aware of the slow realization growing in Takanori’s eyes, he didn’t show it. “Three years. I lost three years of my life to them. I can’t afford to have regrets.” _Because if I do, they’ll have left me with nothing._

It was left unsaid, but Takanori understood all the same. If he was in that situation… he probably wouldn’t be able to go on at all, and there was a depressing thought he didn’t want to acknowledge. He cleared his throat instead, changing the topic. “What was music to you, back then?”

Kouyou hummed lowly, staring out the window towards the darkening cityscape; it had grown colder in the time since Takanori returned, rain at some point turning to snow. “It was my everything,” Kouyou said softly, “and now… now, it’s nothing to me, just like everything else.”

Takanori threw an arm over Kouyou’s shoulders and pulled him close once more; Kouyou didn’t protest, letting himself relax against Takanori’s smaller form, curling into the gentle embrace like he didn’t belong anywhere else. “I could never have guessed,” he murmured into the bright gold of his hair, feeling the way Kouyou’s eyelashes fluttered closed.

“I would never have told you.” It was said so quietly, little more than a hot breath of air whispered against his skin. “I would never have told anyone. All I do is pretend. And if anyone knows, then they need to go, because I can’t stand the way they treat me, like I’m made of glass, even… I even tried to push away Akira.” Kouyou bit his lip, unable to stop the way his voice cracked. “We’ve known each other since we were _ten_. And I tried to reject him, Taka, like it’s his fault that he could never possibly understand, as if— as if Hirai has ruined that too, a friendship I can’t imagine myself without—”

“But he’s not gone anywhere, Kou,” Takanori said, rubbing Kouyou’s shoulder comfortingly. “Akira will never leave you. You’re too important to him.”

“I know he won’t. He blames himself too much for that.”

Oh.

Takanori held his tongue, but he wasn’t surprised. Akira was both too sweet and stupid for his own good; of course he would hold himself responsible for what happened to his best friend.

“Aki’s practically family,” Kouyou said, “we were like brothers. He can’t help but think it was his fault. But it isn’t, I just showed up at his doorstep, demanding he come with me, so he told me to go home. I didn’t tell him I had nowhere to go, and that was the last time he saw me before— before they—”

“It’s okay, Kou. You don’t need to say it.”

Kouyou fell silent, staring vacantly ahead, running fingers idly down his side, before a small, bitter smile crossed his lips. “After I got… out, I had to spend months in the hospital, and Akira started visiting me constantly. He looked so proper, so unlike himself. Professional, almost. First time he came wearing a suit, like he was going to a funeral, he’d even dyed his hair black, and I could tell just by looking that something in him had changed. Like a part of him had died.” 

He was talking slowly, as if struggling to say it, his voice monotonous and stripped of all emotion. Sighing quietly, Kouyou sat up and reached for his pack of cigarettes, pulling one out. “I couldn’t stand to look at him. I couldn’t stand the way he looked at _me_ , and I just wanted him to stop being so sad. You know, the very first thing I said to him was that he looked ridiculous.” He chuckled, lighting the smoke with eyes closed and tossing the lighter back onto the nightstand. “Some friend I am, huh? Akira visits me for months, and when I finally manage to get ahold of myself enough to talk, the first thing I tell him is that his hair sucks. Next time I saw him he’d bleached it again.”

Yeah, that sounded like Akira alright. Takanori couldn’t help but smile at the image, accepting the cigarette from Kouyou’s slender fingers. “Akira didn’t tell me that,” Takanori said with a lungful of smoke, “That’s almost funny, in a tragic way. I never knew that was how it happened.”

“I guess he probably didn’t tell you about the time I tried to get him to fuck me either, then.”

It was a good thing Takanori had chosen that second to take a drag, else he might have dropped the cigarette; instead he ended up choking on the smoke, wheezing out a hoarse, “What?” 

Kouyou nodded shallowly, before grabbing the half-smoked cig from Takanori’s hands and stubbing it out in the ashtray. “We had a… strange relationship, growing up. We were really close. Didn’t think it weird to share a bed, even into our teens. After I was released from the hospital, Akira tried so hard to help me feel safe again, and he thought I would find it comforting. That it would be like before. Especially with the dreams, when I’d wake up and…” he paused. “In the beginning they were constant. I barely got any sleep at night, and Akira thought it would help, that I’d feel better if he was there, but he didn’t know— _I_ didn’t know that I would turn on him like that.”

He had turned back to the window, staring outwards with his arms holding his knees close. “Why do you do it?” Takanori asked, because in all these months, he had yet to know.

“I hate it,” Kouyou murmured. “I hate how my mind isn’t my own, how I can still feel their hands on me, as if I never left the dungeon and they’re still… I wake up and they’re _there_ and all I can think is that I have to replace them with something. With someone.” He sighed deeply, brushing his hand through his hair. “I really traumatized Aki that night, and now he’s so _afraid_ to be around me. He tries so damn badly for things to be the same, keeps making time for us to hang out, but he’s so careful. Like he thinks that if he touches me, or says one wrong word, I’ll fall apart again.” He snorted. “The worst part is that it stopped. I thought it was over, but then they had to start up again…”

“Because of Kai,” Takanori said. _Because of me._ “I know you need his money, Kou, but… why does it have to be him? What is it that he gives you that nobody else can?”

Kouyou took a moment to think, before standing up and opening the window, letting in fresh, cold air. “Kai was one of them,” he said slowly. “But he wasn’t just that. Hirai first brought him in to take care of me. He’s a doctor.”

Somehow, Takanori hadn’t expected that, of all things. “Really?”

“He’s the only one I ever saw the face of, the only one I dared to trust. Even if he…” trailing off, Kouyou shivered slightly, rubbing his arms in a vain attempt to keep warm with the frozen air flooding the room. “Even if he raped me, Kai was the closest to kindness I ever got. So when he found me again, it was a chance for me to take it back.”

Takanori was chewing on the inside of his mouth as Kouyou spoke, unsure of what to think, what Kouyou was trying to explain. “Take what back?”

“Myself,” was the simple answer. “It was my chance to take what had happened to me, and own it. I’d let him fuck me, but it would be on my terms. I could refuse him if I wanted to, leave if I needed it. Nobody would be there but him, and there would be no cameras, no bright lights, no blindfolds,” he was scratching that spot at his ribs again, “no leaving a mark below the waist.”

There was a heavy sense of dread in Takanori’s stomach as he _understood_ just what Kouyou was saying, because Kai had broken those rules. He had taken that last bit of dignity from Kouyou and turned it against him, all because he was jealous, because Takanori had been thoughtless and selfish… 

Still, it left Takanori wondering, and Kouyou was well aware. Closing the window, he gave himself a moment to breathe, before answering the unspoken question. “It’s hard to explain. Kai is possessive, demanding, and if you refuse him what he wants, he’ll just take it. I figured if he could only claim my chest… that’s already been marked. What’s a few more?”

The look on his face was unreadable, arms falling limply to his sides before he walked out of the bedroom, gesturing for Takanori to follow. He shut the blinds in the living room and turned the dimmer just enough to make him squint slightly against the lights. “You told me you loved me, once,” he said. “Did you mean it?”

Well, had he? “I think I did,” Takanori answered honestly, “but…”

“But you said it like an apology, after you raped me.”

Takanori’s jaw fell slack. _“What?!_ I didn’t—” but he stopped himself halfway through protesting, because what if it was true? Kouyou had turned to him for comfort after the dreams, and Takanori had broken the rules, he’d stolen that fragile, important bit of control — the only thing Kouyou really had left — and done as he pleased, put his hands in places he wasn’t allowed, just as Kai had.

“Fuck,” he breathed, blinking away the stinging of tears in his eyes as the full realization hit him, not daring to meet Kouyou’s silent gaze. “Oh, fuck, no… I did, didn’t I…?”

Kouyou nodded solemnly. “It doesn’t really matter right now. I just thought you should know,” he said softly, before reaching down to pull off his shirt in one fluid motion.

Takanori was left breathless for a second. It wasn’t that he had never seen Kouyou’s bare torso before — he had, of course, but never in person. Kouyou had never allowed him to see or touch anything above the waist, but now he was grabbing Takanori’s shaking hands, guiding them to his naked chest, across jutting ribs and the darkened, bruised skin that seemed to cover everything between collarbone and hips.

“This is what Kai did to me, because I let him,” Kouyou said. He pressed the hands to that spot beneath his arm, “but _this_ is what I can’t run away from, what Hirai has branded me as. His own.”

Because beneath Takanori’s shaky fingers were _words_ , white ink rendering the characters nearly invisible against the paleness of his skin. It wasn’t written as a name, but as a word; a brand, three elegant kanji tattooed down the side of Kouyou’s ribs. Lightning rod, they read.

_Hiraishin._

 

It took a week. 

It was the slowest, most tense week of Takanori’s life, and that was saying a lot. A week of picking up the pieces of his and Kouyou’s shattered relationship, of trying to come to terms with himself knowing the reality of what he had done. He had broken the rules. Takanori had done something utterly unforgivable, and he had to live with it. The worst part of it was that Kouyou didn’t seem to care — he was too scared of being alone to mind, and the fact that Takanori genuinely regretted his actions seemed to be enough. 

Like it ever could be. It didn’t change the fact that Takanori hated himself more than ever; Kouyou’s words were a stark reminder of just how low he had sunk. Before meeting Kouyou, he’d been a harmless nobody who was too timid to do anything about his shit situation… but he had changed. Takanori had not forgotten _that_ night months ago, when Kouyou was dead drunk and alone and just wanted a friend, someone to lean on and distract him from the dull, lonely wait that was his life — even if it came at the cost of his body. Back then, when Takanori had gone too far, he had crossed the line, yes. But he had managed to stop himself. He had fucking known better. But then the obsession had overtaken him, the anger and the lust and something he had called _love_ that really was something much different, something far more wicked, and now… god, he wanted to blame Ishida. He would if he could, because he wanted so badly to lift the guilt off his own shoulders before it crushed him, to put it on someone else, someone deserving of it.

But he couldn’t. He had to live with it, and so he continued to be there for Kouyou in a vain hope that maybe he would make up for it all someday.

Over the course of that week, Kouyou made two more visits to Kai. He disappeared out the door only to return hours later, shaky and covered in fresh bruises, but with the smallest light of hope still retained in his eyes, because while Jiro’s deadline was approaching, Kouyou was determined to make it. Even if it meant stretching his boundaries even further.

The last time was the hardest. Kouyou didn’t want to talk about it, of course, slipping into the tub and standing under the spray of water, still fully dressed in another one of his girly outfits. He pulled the clothing off, crumpling up the soaked fabrics and tossed them to the floor like garbage. Stockings, garters and skirt, a long-sleeved top that by all right should look horribly ill-fitting on his broad shoulders, but somehow didn’t. It was all so _feminine._

At least Takanori got an answer to confirm his suspicion as to just _why_ Kai was even demanding Kouyou play dress-up for their meetings. “Isn’t it obvious?” Kouyou said dully, as Takanori gently wiped the ruined makeup from his face. “Kai likes to think of himself as straight. Having me dress like a girl makes it easier to ignore the fact that he fucks a man every week.”

It was the same in Hirai’s videos. Kouyou had always looked so much fancier in them, compared to with other men. Takanori had no reason to complain back then, but now… Kai probably got off on it, on seeing his own dominance, the power imbalance. It only took a glance down to the red handprints and teeth-shaped imprints that trailed up Kouyou’s thighs to confirm that he was probably right. If Kai was willing to pay extra to put his hands where Kouyou didn’t want him, to cover Kouyou’s eyes and make him relive the hell his life had been before, it wasn’t something that needed to be said.

All Takanori could really do was stay close, letting Kouyou take comfort in his presence while he took the time necessary to pull himself together, allowing Takanori to hold his naked form where he sat curled up at the bottom of the tub in the bathroom, the both of them soaking wet. His face was flushed red from where he’d been rubbing at the makeup, like he was holding back tears, but Takanori wasn’t sure if Kouyou was capable of crying. He’d never seen it. Maybe Kouyou was just too numb to cry.

There was a nagging thought deep down that he refused to recognize as the truth that it was, that none of this was truly going to work out, that it was — maybe not for nothing, but a far cry from a solution. He didn’t want to think it, he couldn’t, not with the way Kouyou was pressing a smile against his throat and whispering, “I’m never going back.”

And that could only mean one thing. “Is it done?” Takanori asked, “Do you have enough?”

He could see genuine joy in Kouyou’s expression, relief in his eyes; brushing back the wet hair that had plastered itself to his face, Kouyou nodded. “I do. But that doesn’t mean it’s over, Taka.”

Despite the implications behind his words, he was smiling, though he didn’t elaborate; pushing Takanori away, Kouyou hastily wrapped a towel around himself and left the bathroom with something of a spring in his step as if he was excited. By the time Takanori had dried off and gotten changed, Kouyou had taken up the entire table in front of the television, more money than Takanori had ever seen spread out before him. “Wow,” he uttered dumbly.

“I’ve been keeping track for months,” Kouyou said, slipping banknotes from one of many blank envelopes and counting them, “just double checking, counting the exact amount. This should be just more than enough by now.”

There was something unsettling about the scene, and Takanori hesitated; his mouth felt dry, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. “Is he going to take it, you think?” he said, “Won’t he find it suspicious that you got so much cash, or…”

“Jiro knows who I am.” Kouyou shook his head. “He would be out of business if he didn’t know everything about everyone. He’s well aware of how I’ve earned this, and no, he’s not going to mind.” There was a smirk on his lips, but it was twisted, wrong. “I know his type, Taka. People like Jiro only care about getting paid, they don’t give a shit where the money comes from.”

Plopping down in the empty seat next to Kouyou, Takanori couldn’t help his wide-eyed stare, the sheer reality of the situation finally hitting him. They were so close. They were actually doing this, Kouyou’s hard work and suffering finally bearing fruit; he could afford to pay off Jiro, and even if Hirai was difficult to track down, they could have Ishida within only a couple days, if Kouyou was correct. The guy was good at what he did.

Despite the creeping sense of dread, Takanori couldn’t remember ever being so _excited_ , and that was frightening. He was looking forward to this, to finding Ishida and Hirai, to help Kouyou fulfill his revenge fantasies… as well as his own. 

Kouyou was smiling at him, as if knowing just what he was thinking of. “It’s thrilling, isn’t it?” he said, and Takanori nodded. “Come, I’ve got something for you.” Standing from the sofa he left the money to grab his bag that had been abandoned by the door with his boots and hastily shed coat, reaching into it to pull out two items, finely crafted wooden handles and bound in leather sheaths. He grinned up at Takanori from where he knelt on the floor. “This one is yours,” he said, handing Takanori one of the knives. “And this one’s mine. It’s not much, but it should be enough.”

Takanori slid the knife from the sheath; shiny and new, it had a gently curved blade with a razor edge, and he gingerly ran a finger across it. Sharp as a bitch, he could feel it; the slightest more pressure would be enough to break skin. Kouyou didn’t see the worried crease to his brows because he wasn’t looking anymore, busy balancing his own knife in a steady hand, something excited in his eyes as he followed the blade, almost as if hypnotized.

Sheathing the knife, Takanori frowned. It felt so heavy in his hand, even though it wasn’t, and the pit in his stomach grew deeper.

Afterwards, Kouyou counted the money twice. Counted it, stacked it, tucked the thick bundle into an envelope and put the meager rest back into the closet where he’d kept the cash, hidden in the deep pockets of an oversized, ugly jacket. Then he called up Jiro. It was a short conversation, one Takanori was present for — as far as he could tell, they were to meet up the next morning to exchange the money, and then Jiro would go properly to work. If his claims were correct, he should have something to show for it within a few days.

There were a lot of thoughts swirling around in Takanori’s head when they went to bed. They were doing it. Jiro was getting his money, he was getting to work, he would track down Ishida and get hold of Hirai and… then they were going to _kill_ them. That was the plan. Takanori had known it all along, of course, but it suddenly was so very _real_ now, and he couldn’t ignore the truth. They were going to be murderers, all for the sake of vengeance.

Uncomfortable, Takanori shifted beneath the covers, mindful of Kouyou who was curled up next to him, breathing shakily. Murder. The thought of it was deeply unsettling, and he wasn’t really able to fall asleep at all. Not that Kouyou was faring much greater — he was sleeping, yes, but not peacefully. The dreams still haunted him, and Takanori could only imagine how much worse it would become following that last meeting with Kai… allowing himself to be blindfolded, grabbed, bitten. He had crossed a line, just wanting to get it _over_ with, and now he was suffering the consequences.

Takanori knew what he had to do. He knew, but fuck, he was so _scared_. He didn’t want Kouyou to wake up and mindlessly use him again, not now that he knew the reason why, not now that he knew what he’d done. It was only going to make things worse in the long run. But… 

But Kouyou couldn’t stay like that. He was shuddering, squeezing his eyes shut, gripping at the blankets like he was holding on for dear life… Takanori sighed, and gently shook his shoulder. “Kou,” he said, “Kou, wake up.”

He didn’t stay to see if Kouyou would be alright, didn’t wait around for those wide, frightened eyes to settle on him; instead he pulled away, rising from the bed and pressed his back to the wall as he watched Kouyou sit up, attention directed solely towards the only light source in the room. He did nothing as Kouyou whimpered, as he scrambled to his feet, legs tangling in the blankets on his way towards the window. He tripped, he fell, choking a sob as he grasped the windowsill tightly, eyes blinking rapidly against the light as he struggled to even his breath; he didn’t even seem to notice Takanori approaching cautiously, the press of a steadying hand to his side.

Takanori held his breath, waiting as the tension and anxiety slowly bled from Kouyou’s frame, waiting for something to _happen_. For Kouyou to lash out, for him to demand sex, for anything; but all Kouyou did was stare between the open blinds, towards the blinking city lights before finally going slack, head falling against Takanori’s shoulder with a soft sigh. 

“This used to happen,” Kouyou murmured after a while in a small, broken voice. “In the hospital, this was routine. They tried to put me under, or restrain me, to make it stop, but they didn’t know… they didn’t know.” He was motionless in Takanori’s grip, finally closing his eyes. “Then they put me in another room, one with no windows. They thought I was trying to jump out. It didn’t help.”

“I bet,” Takanori said quietly, unable to do anything but run a soothing hand through the soft hair.

A part of him wanted to stay there the whole night, but after a while Kouyou braced himself against the windowsill, getting to his feet. Once back in bed, he curled up as close as he managed, despite how wrong Takanori knew it should be — not that he minded, they both needed the comfort of closeness. He didn’t protest when Kouyou grabbed Takanori’s hand and laid it on his side, letting fingers ghost across the stark white ink of the tattoo.

“Still think you love me, Taka?”

It was just a breath, barely words at all, maybe not even meant to be heard — but they were so loud in Takanori’s head that he couldn’t think anything else. He wanted to say yes, but he wasn’t sure it would be true. He couldn’t say no, because he knew it would be a lie.

Instead he settled for pressing his lips against Kouyou’s head instead, feeling him relax and eventually drift off to sleep; let him think Takanori didn’t hear. It probably wouldn’t matter, anyway.

But when early morning arrived and Takanori woke up to the shrill alarm he’d set, Kouyou was already long gone.

He would be angry if he had the right, but instead all Takanori could really do was settle to wait, a small breakfast and early television to distract himself from the worry that always came with Kouyou’s absence. He didn’t have to wait long before he could make out the soft footsteps in the hallway over the sound of the television, moving to turn it off while Kouyou turned the key and opened the door.

“How did it go?” Takanori asked as Kouyou kicked his boots off, watching him shake snow from his hair. Kouyou grunted in reply, stifling a yawn.

“As expected,” he said, “now all we gotta do is wait.”

And wait they did. Kouyou silently returned to bed to catch up on lost sleep, settling for wasting the rest of the day same as he always did: by gaming, drinking and smoking while Takanori stayed by his side and kept him company. He was anxious, Takanori could tell. Anxious for results, for answers. He’d spent well over a year trying and failing to get anywhere, and now that he was finally getting so close, there was only more waiting to be done. It was making him tense. 

But there was something else on his mind as well, something Takanori couldn’t possibly know, and it was frustrating. Kouyou spent two days like that, not stepping foot outside the apartment and keeping his phone on hand at all hours of the day; he kept looking at it, waiting for it to ring, for Jiro to have news for him… that, and something else.

It was only when Kouyou pulled open the closet doors again that Takanori understood what he was planning. He lingered in the doorway, watching Kouyou dig through the boxes of girly clothing, pulling out something that would look reasonably casual but still be notably feminine. Takanori wasn’t sure what to do, what to say; all he could really do was stand there silently, watching bruised, tattooed skin disappear into another one of Kai’s outfits.

There was a slight shake to his voice when he said pleadingly, “Kouyou, no.”

But Kouyou might as well not have heard him, not faltering for even a second. Once dressed he took to the bathroom, brushing his hair and adding a light layer of makeup, something natural and pretty.

“I thought you weren’t going back,” Takanori tried again. 

This time, Kouyou nodded. “I know,” he said. “And I’m not. It’s not what you think.”

Takanori frowned. “You’re dolling yourself up like you’re gonna meet him again, how can’t it be?”

“Because Kai won’t be there.” There was a sad set to his eyes, despite his slight smile. “I’ve tracked his schedule. He’s got a long shift today, he’ll be busy at work. You don’t need to worry. I just need to finish this, make it clear to him that we’re done, I need to…” Setting the brush down, he pulled at the collar of his shirt, exposing more darkened skin. “His wife deserves to know what Kai has been doing behind her back. It’s bad enough that I went along with it, knowing he’s kept her in the dark… so I’m ending it.”

With that he went to get ready, and Takanori followed, ignoring the dismayed look Kouyou shot him as he grabbed his leather jacket and pulled it on. “I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“You can’t,” Kouyou repeated. “If Kai finds out you’re still with me…”

“But you’re not going to see Kai, you’re going to see his wife.”

“—look, you can’t be stupid about this, Taka. She’s going to tell him about this, that’s the whole point. But if she sees you, and he finds out that I lied about you, there’ll be hell to pay for both of us. _You can’t come.”_

“I’ll keep my distance?” Takanori tried. “I swear, I’ll stay away, she won’t even know I’m there. I just need to be nearby, just in case… please, Kou.”

Kouyou sighed. “Fine,” he said, sounding resigned. “But only if you swear you won’t interfere.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

Neither of them said so much as a word as they left the apartment, even during the lengthy train ride. Takanori was nervous, yes, but he could tell that Kouyou was too; the dark lenses of his sunglasses couldn’t hide the worried, faraway look in his eyes, not to Takanori. He’d seen it enough times to recognize when Kouyou was anxious, when he was falling deep into his own thoughts. Still, he had no plans to turn around now, and the knife hidden deep in his jeans pocket — a precaution, just in case Kouyou turned out to be wrong — was weighing him down heavily.

A short walk after getting off the train and they found themselves in a rather wealthy looking neighbourhood. Kouyou fit in nicely, pretty as he looked, though Takanori felt the deep crave for a smoke, extremely aware of how out of place he looked set against the neat, tidy houses. They were family homes, not too unlike the house Takanori had grown up in. Kouyou shook his head at the offering of a cigarette; “Stay put,” he ordered, pushing Takanori to stand by a tree that did a reasonable job at hiding him from view, before heading for one of the nearby houses.

Takanori could only watch as the door was pulled open to reveal a woman, a friendly smile plastered on her face as she tilted her head up to greet the stranger. Kai hadn’t been lying about the wife being frail-looking, it would seem; she was a petite and pretty little thing, completely dwarfed next to Kouyou’s tall form. He watched them talk, saw the way her face fell, expression morphing into something resembling fear before she gestured for Kouyou to come inside and they both disappeared behind the door and out of view.

He resisted the urge to bite down on the cig in his mouth, tugged nervously at his earring and _waited._


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so what's that? it's been a month since last update? whoops, it sure has been, despite what I said about getting my schedule back on track. in my defense, things got busy (christmas, new year's, friends; all the good stuff). that, and writing itself takes time when the plot makes an appearance. 
> 
> hey, speaking of which...

“Why’d you bring the knife?” Kouyou asked as they were walking home.

Takanori shrugged. “It was just in case.”

“Just in case, what? Were you planning to storm in if she took the news badly?”

“No, no, of course not. I promised not to do anything, remember?” Takanori pointed out, unconsciously pressing a hand to the pocket where the knife lay heavily against his thigh, feeling the unsettling weight. Somehow its presence was oddly soothing. “It was just in case… if you were wrong, and Kai showed up.”

He wasn’t expecting the exasperated sigh. “Look, you can’t keep doing this,” Kouyou said, “when I said you couldn’t interfere, I meant it. That didn’t just go for his wife. If Kai did come—”

“You would just have me do nothing?”

“Yes.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Takanori grit his jaw and focused on walking. Of course. He shouldn’t be surprised that every little thing he tried to do was perceived as wrong. He was just trying to help, but Kouyou didn’t let him, seemingly didn’t want him to, and as such there was very little Takanori could actually do. Waiting had been a short-lived hell, one he’d spent leaned against the tree and smoking while burning under the curious, judgmental stares of passing locals. He’d ignored them all, kept his eyes peeled and held watch. Just in case of Kai, because if he did show up there was not a chance in hell he’d let Kouyou escape unscratched. And there was no way Kouyou didn’t know that.

He’d been scared the whole time.

“Don’t forget that you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place,” Kouyou reminded him. “If something did happen, you should just have left.”

“So how did she take the news?” Takanori said, changing the topic. Kouyou hadn’t stayed in there for very long, considering everything he had to tell, quietly leaving the house after just half an hour. The woman had not been there to show him out, which was all but expected. He hadn’t asked about it, and Kouyou hadn’t said anything until now, now that they were nearly home.

“Better than you would expect. She already knew that something was up, but… that doesn’t mean she was happy to find out the truth.”

“Would anyone be?” Takanori muttered. “How long have they been married anyway?”

“About five years. She said she’d always thought it was a miracle, how Kai’s been holding out with her for so long.” He sniffed. “Well, now she knows why.”

“So he’s been married five years.” Damn everything, the timelines fit together too well; he didn’t like the implications. “So did you tell her everything, or…”

A nod. “She knows. Didn’t take long before she recognized me either, so Kai will have a lot to answer for when he gets home.”

“Awesome,” Takanori said dully. He didn’t know the woman, but he pitied her; being married to a man for half a decade and staying together despite their problems, only to find out that he had been cheating on her for years — though that was an understatement and a half. Non-consensual sex work and prostitution. A scandal. Right. He didn’t know if she really loved Kai, but anyone’s world could fall apart after hearing something like that.

“Whatever happens next, it’s up to her,” Kouyou said. “But I have a feeling I know which way it’s gonna go.”

On that, he didn’t elaborate, and they walked in silence all the way up to the apartment; once they had shed their boots and jackets, Kouyou pointed at Takanori’s bag of belongings. “Take your stuff to the bedroom,” he ordered in a voice that left no room for questions. Takanori obeyed, ignoring the concerned voice in the back of his head telling him that Kouyou was planning something that he didn’t even get to know about — but another part of him was excited, somehow. Scared, but excited. Things were happening. And by looks of things, it seemed he was officially moving back into the bedroom, even if Kouyou wasn’t stating it outright. 

Once it was done, he returned to the living room, but wasn’t expecting the sight of Kouyou sitting on the couch, running a finger down the sharp blade of his own knife, drawn from its sheath. He seemed to be following the reflected light with his eyes, not letting it out of his sight as he reached for the fine fabric of the long jacket loosely hanging from his shoulders. Grabbing it, Takanori only got a split second to wonder what was going through Kouyou’s head before the long end of the jacket was brought up to the knife’s sharp edge and torn off in a single, clean cut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Takanori gasped, arm stretched halfway out as though he wanted to grab the knife from Kouyou’s hand but didn’t dare to, and even still Kouyou’s gaze didn’t leave the weapon. Instead he grasped the fabric tighter, cutting the piece again, with more force this time. “What are you _doing?!”_

“Go get the boxes from my closet, Taka,” was the only thing Kouyou said, laying the knife down only so he could toss the balled up of piece of scraps to the floor and shrug off the ruined jacket. “Don’t just stand there, do it.”

Takanori breathed heavily, wanting to protest, but it would be useless, so instead he turned back and did as he was told, pulling the cardboard boxes out and into the living room, pushing them open to reveal the outfits, and Kouyou smirked bitterly, looking at them. “Now grab your knife.”

Takanori did.

Kouyou’s knife was different from his own. Its handle was black where Takanori’s was brown, the blade slightly bigger and with a wider curve. But his knife was equally sharp and shiny, good for cutting through clothing, through skin. He wondered if Kouyou was hoping they would be sharp enough to tear through humiliation, too. It was worth a try, if nothing else, he thought, as he ran his blade smoothly through the top loosely clenched in his hand. Bits of ruined fabric were gathering by their feet.

“Kai gave this to me,” Kouyou said softly, as he cleanly cut through a pair of lacy garters. “He called them gifts, asked me to wear them for him, but he didn’t let me refuse. He likes his lovers to look pretty. It’s all very expensive, I’m sure.”

Takanori could only nod, tossing another scrap of clothing to the floor before reaching for something more to tear apart. From what little he had seen of Kai’s wife, he could tell she was beautiful in a very traditional sense. Small, pretty, polite and perfectly feminine. Her short stature only added to it, he supposed. Meanwhile, Kouyou was her polar opposite; tall, and skinny, pale where she was dark. Despite his vaguely feminine features, no amount of makeup and pretty clothing could hide his obviously masculine frame, his wide shoulders and flat chest. There was no covering up the sharp, strong set of his jaw or his large hands, and Takanori knew that Kai couldn’t be foolish enough to think he could pass Kouyou for a woman, that he could genuinely try to convince himself — as Kouyou had claimed — that it was all to play pretend, to keep up his appearance as a straight man.

In truth, it was a power play. It was degrading, emasculating, a game to turn Kouyou into a pretty little doll for Kai to play with as he pleased. For _him_ to play with, just as Hirai had done, just as countless faceless men had.

His hands found a skirt, and it felt oddly heavy between his fingers even as he stabbed the knife into it with more power than necessary to cleave it clean in two. Kouyou didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as glance at the display. They were cutting up memories, or trying to, and Takanori only had his own regrets to work with.

He could pretend, at least for a little bit, that this wasn’t his reality. He could imagine the clothing he was reducing to bits and pieces belonged to someone who deserved to be turned to shreds, maybe even Ishida; he could pretend this wasn’t something he had dreamed about seeing Kouyou in, pretend he hadn’t drawn enjoyment from it, from sharing Kai’s preferences to some degree. The thought of it — the mental image of what had once been blind boy dressed up to impress him, to turn him on so that he could get the job done, so he'd push Kouyou down onto a bed or a table or the rough concrete while the cameras rolled and… 

Letting the knife drop into the pile below, Takanori grabbed the shirt he’d been slicing through and yanked at it with all his might until the seams gave out, but not all the way. He wasn’t strong enough to rip it cleanly with his bare hands.

Next to him, Kouyou bristled. “Be careful,” he chided, grabbing the knife from between Takanori’s feet and laying it safely onto the table, “you could hurt yourself.”

“Maybe I should,” Takanori said. He was tearing at the clothing between his fingers, clawing holes into it with sharp nails, wanting to rip it to pieces and curl up and die all at once. “Maybe that would be better.” If anything, he wanted to cry, and he wasn't even sure _why._

Kouyou sighed. Putting his own knife away, he laid a hand on Takanori’s shoulder. It was warm. Grounding. “You alright, Taka?”

He wanted to nod, wanted to shake it off like the nothing that it was, but instead Takanori shook his head. “No,” he croaked, “everything is just… it’s all so fucked up, and even now—” the sob won, fighting its way up his throat, and he shut his eyes tightly, hating it. “And even now I can’t help but think how much _I_ am just like them, how much I don’t deserve to be here, after what I did to you, why— why are we even doing this, Kouyou? Why am I here?”

The embrace came as a shock; the arms around his back drawing him closer, and he pressed his face into the warm curve that was Kouyou’s neck, hiding into the bright gold of hair, melting into the comfort and choking on his own breath as Kouyou held him quietly; he hadn’t even realized he was in tears.

“God, and I do love you,” he forced out, despite the way Kouyou froze against him as he said it, “and I hate it, because you don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you…”

Kouyou only shushed him, holding him close until the sobs died down, until Takanori’s breathing evened out and his shivering had mostly subsided. Only then did he let go, with a soft brush of lips against Takanori’s tear-stained cheek.

“You’ll be alright, Taka,” was all he said, before grasping the knife and going back to work, but his movements were much harsher this time than they had been before.

 _Yeah, I’ll be alright_ , Takanori thought, lowering his gaze. His own knife was clenched so tightly in his fist that the shaft was biting into his hand and his fingers were turning white. _I fucked up, but at least I’ll be alright. You’re so fucked up, you won’t be._

Shoving the thought into the furthest, darkest parts of his mind, Takanori grabbed the half-torn shirt from where he’d abandoned it in his lap and resumed cutting.

They cleaned the scraps up afterwards. Stuffing the ruined remains of clothing back into the boxes, they pushed them into a corner and out of immediate sight. Takanori had charming cuts on his palms from where he had been careless, but he didn’t care, finding that a bit of pain did him good, even if Kouyou seemed to think otherwise and pulled Takanori to the bathroom, refusing to let him go until he had cleaned and wrapped up each and every cut.

Through all the hours they wasted afterwards, neither of them mentioned his earlier episode. Kouyou was unreadable, so if he was thinking about it, Takanori had no way of knowing. Instead they quietly cleaned the apartment as much as they were willing to, before huddling back onto the couch to mindlessly stare at the television. Aside from the cardboard boxes looming in the corner, the apartment looked almost exactly as it did the first time he’d come over. The thought was somewhat unsettling.

Takanori had settled comfortably into Kouyou’s open embrace like an oversized cat, halfway draped over him and with Kouyou’s long arms curved loosely around his waist, almost protectively. He hadn’t acknowledged Takanori’s confession, but the warmth of his body against Takanori’s own almost felt like acceptance. Or maybe it was just to keep him from falling apart again; Takanori didn’t know, nor did he really care to find out. It was Kouyou, and it was Kouyou _caring_ for him. He felt safe.

But the clock was ticking; it was getting late, and he knew there was a high chance they weren’t going to keep the peace for much longer — so when it finally came, neither of them were surprised. He felt Kouyou tense beneath him and his arms tighten around him for a brief moment before he even heard the heavy footsteps out in the hallway that were coming closer, louder.

Takanori was pushed out of the embrace and away, getting to his feet just as the knocking started. It was patient at first, but when there came no answer, it became insistent and harsh, and Kouyou urged him towards the bedroom. “Go to my room and don’t you dare come out,” he said. “He’ll kill you if he knows you’re here.”

On the other side of the door, Takanori could make out a familiar voice, one keeping its cool though he could hear the concealed anger bubbling beneath the surface, “Open up, Kouyou, I know you’re home.”

There was no mistaking Kai’s voice, and Takanori couldn’t help the petrifying shiver down his spine, even if he knew that this would happen, that Kai would come for them demanding answers, revenge; he only snapped out of it when Kouyou shook him, and there was no room to argue. Shutting the door behind him and sliding down against it, he pressed a hand to his mouth to control his breath because there was nothing he could do, not if it meant risking his own life, not with Kouyou’s last words echoing in his head — _you promised you wouldn’t interfere, no matter what happens._

So he stayed deathly still and listened. Kouyou was opening the front door. Their voices drifted out towards him, and while he couldn’t make out all the words, he heard Kai get louder, his tone angrier. Kouyou didn’t raise his voice, and when there was a crashing sound and the violent bang of the door shutting closed, he knew Kai had made his way inside.

It was so reminiscent of the night Kai had shown up to _talk_ — except this time, he thought Takanori to be gone. He was here for Kouyou and no one else, and Takanori had no idea what the man was going to do to him. It frightened him beyond belief. 

Don’t interfere. 

But he could hear Kouyou cry out softly in pain on the other side of that door, could hear the telltale sounds of violence over the words that were dripping with venom, and Takanori knew that there was no way he could keep his promise to Kouyou, not like this. He couldn’t sit there and do nothing. _If you ever see that man again, call me and I’ll come._

Shiroyama. He had to call Shiroyama, had to call the cops, because if he didn’t then there was nothing that would stop Kai; Kouyou wasn’t strong enough to prevent the man from hurting him, and Takanori _knew_ that. Kouyou knew it too, despite how much he refused to acknowledge the fact, and if Takanori let it happen then he would hate himself forever. He was grasping his phone in an iron grip as he pushed in the number, pressing the cell to his ear and waited, listening to the agonizingly slow beep of the phone and the noise outside the door that were equally loud in his ears—

“—you told her, Kouyou, you _told_ her!” Kai was shouting. “Do you even know what you’ve done?! You made me _hurt_ her!”

“What I did was nothing, and you know it, Tanabe.” Kouyou’s voice was sounding rough and almost faint. “It was—” He was cut off by a rough slam, before coughing and speaking again, “This was all you.”

Takanori did as best he could to keep his lowered voice steady as someone finally picked up. “Shiroyama, I need you. He’s here. He’s _here.”_

He jumped as there was another loud noise, one that seemed to shake the walls, and it took Takanori a moment to realize that Kouyou must have been thrown against the very door he was leaning against; his heart nearly froze in fear until he heard Kouyou speak up again, still staying frighteningly calm despite the situation, despite the accusations Kai was all but screaming at him.

Despite the violence.

On the other line, Shiroyama was scrambling to catch the mumbled information, promising he would be there as quickly as possible, and hung up. “Is this how Mina felt when you hit her?” Kouyou was saying. “How far is she, three months now? Or did you take that from her, too?” A broken laugh, but there was no joy in it. “Is this what you did, when she told you—”

The sentence was cut off, replaced with a furious growl and the sound of a new struggle, of Kai’s voice shouting at him to shut up, and Takanori drew away from the door, cursing himself. Fuck how much of a fool he had been to let Kouyou talk to the woman when he knew all too well that nothing good would come out of it, with how volatile Kai could be, but once Kouyou made up his mind he was so fucking stubborn — and though the noise was muffled through the door, the whimpers coming from the living room sounded pained. Judging by the near quiet gasps, Kouyou didn’t sound like he was struggling nearly as much as he should have been…

_He’ll kill you._

Even through his terror, Takanori knew he couldn’t stay there. He had to do something, and fast, because if he didn’t, Kouyou might very well be the one who had to pay the price. Gathering his courage Takanori got to his feet and turned the handle, pushing the door open so harshly that it slammed against the wall, loudly announcing his presence. It was enough to make Kai flinch in surprise and look up from where he held Kouyou pinned to the floor, enough for his concentration to slip and his hands to lose their grip around the pale throat; taking the chance, Kouyou shoved a knee into his abdomen, scrambling to get as far away from the man as he could.

Not a moment later, Kai had regained his breath and composure from the shock of seeing they weren’t alone, and was turning to Kouyou with an utter hatred in his eyes. “You _whore,_ you said he was _gone!”_

Takanori clenched his jaw and drew closer to Kouyou’s side, stopping his swaying with a steadying hand despite being pushed back for his efforts, and he barely even registered the way Kouyou put himself between him and Kai, shielding him from the murderous rage.

“I lied,” Kouyou said.

He tried to ignore the rough quality in Kouyou’s voice, the way his words sounded choked, matching the darkening red spots around his throat, trying to keep his focus on Kai, furious Kai who might lash out at them at any moment — Kai who had a tear trickling down his cheek as he finally realized that no, Kouyou was never going to belong to him and that he was losing those he wanted, those he loved, all because he was selfish and greedy enough to try to keep them both.

“What did you do to her, Yutaka?” Kouyou asked, and Takanori kept his eyes glued to Kai’s clenching fists, curling a cautious arm around Kouyou should Kai attack them. “What happened to Mina?”

But instead, Kai only sobbed. Takanori grit his teeth. “You knew what would happen if she found out,” he yelled, “and yet, you told her anyway! You knew. You _knew!”_

Kouyou was scowling, and when Kai took a threatening step closer his only reaction was to push Takanori further back until he hit the wall, but Takanori couldn’t think of anything beyond the implications of Kai’s words. “So I did,” Kouyou was saying, “but only because I know how much of a fucking _bastard_ you really are. What did she say when she realized? Did she finally leave?” He paused, ignoring the painfully tight grip of Takanori’s hand at his side, pleading for him to shut up before this got any worse. “Or did you not give her the chance?”

Kai growled, and Takanori was only barely quick enough to pull them away, letting Kai’s fist collide with the wall instead of Kouyou’s face. Kouyou groaned, ripping Takanori’s hand from him and shoving him backwards and away so harshly he almost stumbled, doing nothing to stop Kai from grabbing the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the wall once again, just beside the new hole in the plaster. He caught Kai’s wrist before he could hit him, but all Takanori could see was the rough, bleeding knuckles of the hand tangled in Kouyou’s shirt. “The kid is _yours_ , Yutaka!” Kouyou shouted, as he fought to defend himself from the punches — but it was enough, Kai’s eyes widening in horror and realization, the rage that permeated his entire being dying away in seconds as he stopped his assault. Kouyou heaved a heavy breath. “She told me. The baby’s yours, Mina never lied to you.”

Somewhere far away, sirens were howling. Takanori almost wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t, he could only watch as Kai stumbled backwards, letting go of Kouyou only to fall to his knees by Kouyou’s feet. “What do you mean,” he choked out, “what do you mean, she— everything I did, it was—” He couldn’t finish his sentence, hand flying up to his mouth and muffling his wail as he cried out in anger and regret.

It had all just been the actions of a greedy, jealous man. An overreaction. Takanori almost pitied him; he almost wanted to reach out to Kai, soothe him, take his hand and run fingers over the scarred tissue where Kouyou had bitten down once, while Kai was raping him. Takanori almost wanted to grab his knife and drive it into Kai’s neck, if only to end to the pitiful noises coming from him as he sobbed on the floor.

Fuck, what a mess. Looking up he found Kouyou stepping away, grabbing for their knives, as if he had read Takanori’s thoughts. “Kouyou,” he uttered, “what did he mean, you knew what would happen? What did he do?”

Kouyou only sniffled, and his face completely blank. “You don’t need to ask me that question, Taka. It had to be done.”

Something awful was gnawing at his insides, revulsion blooming in his gut as he glanced from the trembling form that was Kai to Kouyou who was sliding his knife from its sheath. It was glinting wickedly in the soft light of the half-dimmed lamps, but Takanori found himself unable to breathe as his mind raced. If Kouyou knew what would happen to the wife— to Mina, if she were to find out… and he had told her anyway. “So you— you just sacrificed her?”

“Kai was a means to an end, Takanori,” Kouyou said sharply. “We don’t need him anymore, now that everything is ready, and he has to deserve it. He has to _accept_ it. We get Kai first, before Ishida, before Hirai. That was always the plan.”

He couldn’t draw his gaze away from the knife, and in the corner of his eye he could see Kai sit up against the wall, teary eyes also fixated on the same, shining blade. He couldn’t say a word, he could barely think, could only turn to see Kai bow his head as though he agreed, that he needed — _deserved_ to die, for what he’d done. If not for his actions to Kouyou, then because of what he’d done to Mina. Takanori had barely even noticed how the sound of howling sirens had subsided, the slam of car doors outside the building; only Kai seemed to acknowledge it, flinching slightly at the sound.

“She deserved to know the truth, anyway,” Kouyou finished.

Takanori couldn’t help the way his mouth was falling open, because he was going to do it right here, in his own apartment, cut Kai down where he stood and just — be _done_ with it. It was a horrifying thought, now that it was so close to becoming reality. “But why?” he stuttered, stalling for time, “Why kill him, why here? Can’t you just hand him over to the cops, let them—” 

_“No,”_ Kouyou said sharply, and his hand tightened around the knife. “Not again. _Nobody,_ Takanori. Nobody deserves to go on like they did nothing wrong, not after what they did. I thought you would get that by now.”

Takanori couldn’t wholly disagree, but there was something gnawing at him deep down. Kouyou wanted revenge, that much he’d known for a long time, but now that he stood there, ready to draw a knife across Kai’s throat, he seemed so… indifferent about it. There was no passion in his voice, no fear in his expression, nothing even hinting at excitement or anxiety; only a hollow nothing as he looked away, eyes back to the sharp blade he was holding, like he hoped it would give him some sort of peace. “There’s more to it,” Takanori said and shook his head. “If that’s what this is all about, why involve the woman?”

There was a sigh; Kouyou suddenly seemed very, very tired, and he put the knife back in its sheath. “He needs to deserve it,” he repeated, looking down at Kai who drew a shuddering breath from where he was slowly standing up, still keeping himself propped against the wall and nursing his bleeding, scarred hand. “He needs to…”

Whatever Kouyou was about to say next never left his mouth, cutting himself off at the sound of heavy footsteps moving swiftly down the hallway towards them. Kai had barely managed to get to his feet when they reached the door, knocking with a hurried impatience, calling out _police, open up,_ and Takanori ignored the growing realization in Kouyou’s eyes as he moved to open the door, finding Shiroyama on the other side, fully dressed in uniform and looking scared for his life, another officer standing just behind him.

“We came as quickly as we could, is everything alright here? What’s—”

Catching sight of Kai, he turned to the other man behind him and nodded sharply; Kai only hung his head, taking the sudden change in situation with a resigned acceptance. Takanori sighed in relief, moving to let the two men in, but what hope the arrival of the officers had brought disappeared just as quickly as it came when he saw the sheer betrayal clear as day on Kouyou’s face.

The look he shot Takanori was absolutely murderous. 

 

Takanori should have known better than to expect Kouyou to be fine with what he’d done, but in his defense… he _had_ been terrified. For both of their lives. Not that Kouyou was going to listen to his excuses; he’d gotten enough of those for a lifetime, and nor did he want to deal with the consequences of Takanori calling for backup. Refusing to talk to either Shiroyama or the second officer, he’d turned and gone straight for the bathroom, locking himself inside. It was childish, sure, but when neither of the officers managed to coax him out, it left Takanori to explain the situation.

At the very least, Kouyou hadn’t been quick enough to avoid Shiroyama noticing his bruised neck. Takanori decided that this was a good thing, as it meant his concern — and rage, though it was kept dormant by his professionalism and the presence of his partner — would only twist the situation further in their favor. Thankfully Kai knew better than to resist; he probably figured getting arrested was a better solution than being stabbed, and didn’t resist being handcuffed or questioned, even if he quickly grew silent. He’d come over to see Kouyou, he was angry, he was violent. Takanori had showed up, and then he had backed off. His name was Tanabe Yutaka. After that, he said no more, simply staring at the floor and ignoring the questions.

He looked completely defeated, and Takanori had a feeling of _this is it_ , that it was just what they needed to finally get the man out of the picture for a long, long time. The best part was that he didn’t even have to lie, and he doubted Kai would argue. And why would he? The man already seemed to have lost everything, and for it he only had himself to blame.

“He hit his wife, earlier,” Takanori said, glancing over to the man; sure enough, other than the regretful frown, there was no reaction. “I don’t know what he did, but he hurt her, and then wanted to hurt Kouyou. I heard him talking about it.”

Escorting a cuffed Kai out to the car fell on Shiroyama, leaving the second officer to question Takanori; it felt strange, talking to such an authoritative figure — Shiroyama was one too, but he had shown himself as too defeated, too pathetic to really be taken seriously. His partner, however, was a complete stranger, and stuck to professionalism as he listed off his questions.

“So you were here the whole time, during the incident. What is your relation to Takashima?”

“He’s a close friend. I visit him a lot.”

“I assume you’re aware of Takashima’s situation, then?” A nod, and the man continued. “Alright, walk me through the events again. You said earlier that you hid in the bedroom, and then came out…”

“Yes,” Takanori said, grimacing. “Kouyou told me to hide, he said Kai— uh, that Tanabe was going to kill me if he saw me. I met him once before, and he threatened me… I reported it, Shiroyama knows.” The new name felt strange on his tongue, but not as much as having to retell it to a policeman. Especially not with Kouyou so close, hearing everything and refusing to show himself. “I thought he was going to kill Kouyou, so I called for help.”

The officer asked as he scribbled it down on his small notepad. “When you first met him, what did Tanabe threaten you with?”

“I don’t know. Violence, probably. Didn’t want to find out. He was jealous, told me to back off, because he… he wanted Kouyou for himself.”

The implication in Takanori’s words was obvious, and when the officer only looked at him questioningly, he decided to push his luck. “I think that… Tanabe has been abusing Kouyou for months. Sexually, I mean,” Takanori explained. It wasn’t untrue, even if Kouyou had been in it for his own reasons. “Even after Kouyou got out.”

“Why didn’t Takashima report this abuse?”

“I don’t know,” Takanori said meekly. “Maybe he felt he couldn’t. Maybe Kai didn’t let him.”

“Takashima knows that he is supposed to be under protection, specifically from this sort of harm. If he felt unable to call police for help, then…” The officer seemed to be thinking. “My partner claims Tanabe is one of the men we’re looking for. Do you know if there is any truth to that?”

Takanori nodded. “I think it’s true. Kouyou told me, Kai was… Tanabe,” he corrected himself, “is the only one he ever got to see, and that he gave him a scar, once.” He lifted a hand, pointing out the approximate area where he remembered seeing Kouyou’s teeth sink in, drawing blood and tearing the flesh from Kai’s fingers. “He bit his hand, here. Apparently it was filmed.”

The officer seemed interested in that, scribbling it down quickly before turning to ask about the domestic violence. On that, Takanori couldn’t say much. “Tanabe said she found out. That he’d been involved in the case, that he was… one of them. Cheating on her by abusing someone. I guess it escalated. That’s all I know.”

If there was anything he was grateful for, it was the offer to have him remain anonymous as a witness; unless Kai refused to cooperate with the police, then Takanori’s statement would probably not be required at all. And he severely doubted that would be the case… after all, the man had seemed at a complete loss. He’d hurt his pregnant wife, been tricked by the person he thought he had under his thumb, and now he was a villain in a story that the whole country seemed to know. Kai— _Tanabe_ was a man who had lost everything, and deserved it. There was little else to do but accept the fate he had laid out for himself. If he made it to jail, he was going to burn.

But Kouyou was livid. He only came out from his hiding place once Shiroyama and the other cop had left, and the first thing he did was storm straight past Takanori to yank his jacket off the wall in order to put it on, features marred by anger. “Kouyou,” Takanori tried cautiously, “Kou, are you—”

“What part of _don’t do anything_ do you not understand, Matsumoto?” Kouyou hissed. “I told you not to interfere! And what do you do? You call Shiroyama, you call the cops, you _let him know you were there—”_

“Well, I couldn’t do nothing!” Takanori exclaimed. “He was fucking _strangling_ you, Kouyou! He was going to kill you!”

Kouyou only scowled, shoving his boots on and moving to tie them, his movements rushed, betraying his impatience. “I had it under _control_. You should just have stayed quiet and waited like I told you to, but instead you’ve gone ahead and ruined everything.”

“Why? Because it means you won’t get to kill him?” Takanori said, trying and failing to ignore his growing worry as Kouyou turned, grabbing his scarf to coil it around his neck. “Where are you going?”

“You’ll be happy to know,” Kouyou breathed, “that Jiro called while you were busy sweet-talking the cops, and I have somewhere to be.” He was already pulling open the door, rushing away like he couldn’t get out of there quickly enough, and it was all Takanori could to to throw his shoes on as fast as he could and sprint after Kouyou before he disappeared.

“Wait up,” he called out, but Kouyou wasn’t slowing down where he hurried down the stairs. “For fuck’s sake, Kouyou, wait! I was just trying to protect you!”

“Protect me?” Kouyou repeated, turning to face him. He almost looked like he was ready to laugh. “You spend months watching me get raped, and when you decide you feel bad about it and want to help me get back at them, you still break your damn promises,” he said lowly, dangerously. “You ruined everything by calling for help when I told you _not to_ , because I knew that if they took Kai away he’s never gonna get what he deserves—” 

“Kouyou…”

“—and you call that _protecting_ me? Go back, Takanori, before you ruin this too. Go back and this time, stay there.” With that he continued down the hall, bursting through the door and into the cold winter night. If he left now, Takanori was fairly certain he’d never come back.

So he followed, ignoring the heavy fear and stab of guilt as he ran out to feel the brisk, chill air biting at his face. There was no sign of the police even having been there, despite them having left just minutes ago, but he was quick to spot Kouyou heading towards a car that stood waiting by the road.

Despite the venomous look Kouyou shot him, he hurried to his side just in time to see the car window scroll down, revealing a man — presumably Jiro, sitting behind the wheel. The guy glanced between them, then gestured for them to get in. “Come on, come on, don’t have all the time in the world,” he said; his voice had a slight lilt to it, like he was foreign, though he didn’t look it. 

“Are you Jiro?” Takanori asked, before turning back to Kouyou. “What’s going on? Where are you going?”

“That would be me,” Jiro nodded, with a smile that looked oddly friendly despite the hostile vibes Kouyou were shooting out. “Communication is important in every relationship, you should know. Matsumoto, I know who you are. Come on, get in.”

He was moving to unlock the back door, but Kouyou shook his head. “He’s not coming.” His face had slipped into a blank mask, though there was still the hint of disappointment beneath it, and he refused to look Takanori’s way.

“But you said you wanted me to bring you both, or did you forget?”

“There’s been a change of plans.”

“Wait,” Takanori cut in, “did you find Hirai? Do you know where he is?”

“Not the man, but his last hiding spot.” There it was again, that smile; Takanori didn’t like it. “Abandoned, empty, but more than anyone has seen of Hirai for years. Exciting, isn’t it?” Next to him, Kouyou huffed. “Well, it’s too bad you do not get to be part of it, kid.”

Kouyou shifted uncomfortably at the questioning look Takanori shot him. “I need to be there,” he said quietly. “I need to see it for myself.”

Leaning over, Jiro pushed open the car door. “Then in you go,” he grinned, “the quicker you sit down, the quicker you’ll get there.”

Kouyou seemed hesitant, staring at the empty seat like it was going to swallow him whole if he got closer. It was strange; wasn’t this what he had wanted for so long? Unsure, Takanori put a hand on his shoulder gently, despite the way Kouyou flinched at the touch. “Kou, please… I’m sorry—”

But his hand was shrugged away, and without a word Kouyou complied, getting into the car and slamming the door shut. Jiro smiled approvingly. “Then have a pleasant night, Matsumoto,” he said, and stepped on the gas before Takanori could get a chance to protest.

Takanori could do nothing as he was left in the dust, watching the dark car speed off down the road and disappear with Kouyou in it.


	41. Chapter 41

With nothing else to do, Takanori did as Kouyou told him to, returning to the apartment to wait, quietly settling down so he couldn’t get in the way of Kouyou’s plans. Sighing, Takanori leaned back on the sofa, unsure of what to do about the nervous sensation in his gut. Kouyou would be fine. Hirai wasn’t even going to be there, so he had no reason to worry, but even so, Takanori was afraid. Jiro seemed sketchy at best, and he didn’t trust the man; there was something behind that smile of his, something ominous… and Kouyou hadn’t seemed too inclined to get into the car, despite how long and hard he’d worked to get answers.

The corner of his lip twitched bitterly as he recalled what Jiro had said. Kouyou had wanted Takanori to come; he was supposed to have been there, but he had broken his promise. He’d fucked up royally by calling for help, and now Kouyou was out there alone. There was nobody he had to blame but himself.

Takanori was starting to grow tired of that notion.

Regardless, whatever Kouyou was looking for, Takanori hoped he found it, because he’d waited too long to be left with nothing. Hirai had been gone from the world for a long time, after all; no one had seen or heard from him in two years, so Takanori could only imagine how it must have felt to finally get so close, even if Hirai was gone by the time he got there. Maybe Jiro had let him slip on purpose, while Kouyou was scraping together enough cash to pay him off… how he’d found the place was a mystery. It didn’t sit quite right with Takanori. The plan was for Jiro to get them Ishida, because he would be easier to find — but if Jiro had gone straight for Hirai instead, it was likely he either already knew the place, or he was just that good at what he did.

Leaning his head back, Takanori closed his eyes. Two years was a long time for someone to stay completely quiet… living like that had to be difficult, having to stay under the radar for so long, unable to be amongst people since the story was so widely known to the public. But didn’t it fit beautifully? Kouyou had spent two years tortured in a dungeon, and Hirai spent two years hiding away while the world hunted for the monster of a man he was. It was almost poetic, in a way.

It was also disgustingly tragic. The year was ending soon, too; a few more weeks, and the new year would be rolling in. Two years would turn to three, unless Jiro really was worth his ridiculously inflated price tag… they could have all this over and done with. Kouyou could finally feel like he could put all of this behind him, and give himself a fresh start. Takanori hoped so. Once they’d achieved revenge, they could put an end to all of this and maybe, by spring, they would be better people living real lives instead of playing a waiting game, counting down the clock until violent men would get the punishment they deserved.

Even if it was a naive thought. He released a slow breath, pulling the phone from his pocket and staring at it with glazed-over eyes. Truthfully, Takanori was still shaky. How couldn’t he be? It hadn’t been that long since the cops had left, since danger had hovered over both himself and the man he thought himself to love, and now Kouyou was gone, snatched away by someone who claimed to be on their side in exchange for payment. If he called, he was almost certain Kouyou would refuse to pick up. Another betrayal. Another chance for Kouyou to run away and deny all contact for a while, but at least this time, Kai would no longer be there to pick him up and take advantage. No, this time it was Jiro. A stranger who cared for nothing but money.

It didn’t sit right with him.

He was clutching the phone so tightly in his cut-up hand that it was stabbing into the wounds through the bandages Kouyou had applied. Swallowing his fears, Takanori steeled himself and called Kouyou, fully aware that he would most likely not get an answer, curling up to the sound of long, slow beeps. Maybe Kouyou was considering picking up, in that moment. Maybe he was digging through his pockets, annoyed that he was interrupted in the middle of picking through Hirai’s stuff, or maybe the phone lay abandoned somewhere on the ground and Kouyou was gone, maybe Jiro had lied and he was—

Kouyou’s voice greeted him, sharp with irritation. _“What do you want?”_

He breathed a sigh of relief. Or maybe Kouyou was fine, answering the call like he was far from as angry as he’d appeared. _He’s fine._ He’s fine. “Where are you? Did you get there yet?”

_“Takanori, I don’t want you to come running.”_

“I know. I won’t come, I’m just worried…”

 _“Save it,”_ Kouyou said curtly. _“There’s no point in you being here anyway. Hirai is gone. Looks like he left everything and ran, his stuff is still here.”_ There was a clattering sound, like Kouyou had kicked something over. _“Anything else you wanted to know, or can I hang up?”_

 _Will you be safe?_ “Will you come back?”

A pause. Takanori held his breath, waiting for Kouyou to reply. Finally, he snorted. _“We’ll see.”_

And Kouyou hung up, just as Takanori expected him to, leaving him to stare at the phone for a while, trying to gather his thoughts; Kouyou was _fine_. There was no danger posing a threat to him, and Hirai wasn’t there. Kouyou was just… gone, disappearing once again after Takanori’s betrayal, but at least he was willing to give Takanori some peace of mind by answering. It was really the only comfort Takanori had left where he sat, alone in the apartment that just an hour ago had contained the threat of violence and even _death_ for the both of them.

Covering his eyes with a shaky hand, he tried to calm himself. They could very well both have died. Sure, Kouyou claimed he knew what he’d been doing, but Takanori doubted that were true. If he hadn’t intervened, Kouyou could be dead on the floor, neck covered in choking bruises where Kai had cut off his air supply. And if that had been allowed to happen, what could say that Kai wouldn’t find him next? The only thing separating them had been a door, one that didn’t even have a lock… really, there was no avoiding the possibility of tragedy. Whatever turn the night had taken, the result would have been disastrous. And even if he hadn’t called Shiroyama, Kai would probably be the one dead, because Kouyou had been so _ready_ , even if his heart wasn’t in it; it was just the reality Kouyou had convinced himself of, that it had to be done. Kai had to die, just like everyone else who’d wronged him. He hadn’t been about to let his chance slip away.

Maybe Takanori would fall on that list too, once Kouyou decided he wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. It wasn’t that big of a stretch, after all Takanori had taken advantage of him — twice, he reminded himself bitterly, even if he hadn’t gone all the way the first time — and Kouyou had no intention to forgive that. Sure, he’d ignored it, claimed that it didn’t matter, not now, at least. But that could change. For all Takanori knew, calling the cops had been the last straw and Kouyou could be plotting to kill him at that very moment.

But that was the price one had to pay for something unforgivable, wasn’t it? 

Shaking the thought, Takanori got to his feet, because he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. The place was something of a mess anyway, after Kai had stormed in, leaving his and Kouyou’s earlier efforts to clean up pointless. Footprints of dirty, melted snow coated the floor, and everything in the living room was just slightly off kilter after the violence the man had thrown around. That could be cleaned and fixed up easily. Takanori wasn’t sure what to do about the hole in the wall, though.

But giving himself something to do, something to occupy his hands with was nice, even for just a few minutes. The only other thing Takanori could really do was sit around and wait, but he knew he'd just think himself into a headache if he did. Trying to sleep would probably yield the same result. 

Typical that his phone started ringing again just as he was getting into the rhythm of it. Pausing where he sat crouched on the floor, dirty rag in his hand since Kouyou didn’t own a mop, he glanced up at the phone where it lay on the sofa, buzzing and belting out music. It could be Kouyou. He could be in trouble… rushing over he grabbed the phone and gave himself a split second to check who was calling, finding himself both relieved and disappointed as Shiroyama’s name glared back at him. Kouyou would likely only call if it was an emergency and Takanori was his last option, so it was probably for the better. And an update on the situation sounded good. Pressing the phone to his ear, he took the call.

 _“Hey, Matsumoto,”_ came Shiroyama’s voice on the other end, _“I just left the station. Is this a bad time?”_

“Not at all,” Takanori replied, shrugging. “Anything happen?”

 _“Oh, good. No, just figured you deserved to know what’s going on down here. After all, this is the most progress we’ve had in this case in years, and I owe it to you… Tanabe confessed. Not officially, since he hasn’t been interviewed yet, but he ran his mouth while we were bringing him in.”_ He spoke quickly, but despite his obvious excitement there was a worried note in his voice. _“It’s a weird situation. Good, but… weird, after so long. My coworkers are actually impressed, they’re considering reopening the case.”_

“Well they better,” Takanori muttered. “Speaking of Kai… damn, I mean Tanabe. What about Mina, his wife? Do you know what happened to her?”

 _“We sent a unit to check up on her. Apparently she required medical attention, but she’ll be alright.”_ A pause. _“Why? Did Tanabe say something in particular?”_

“No, he just said he’d hurt her, but… look, it’s fucked up. Kouyou knew he would take it badly if she confronted him, but that didn’t stop him from letting her know. And she’s pregnant, so…” He rubbed his temple slightly, soothing the headache that was building up again. “Or maybe she’s not anymore, I don’t know what Kai did.”

Shiroyama was quiet for a moment. _“But you didn’t tell my partner that.”_

“Of course I didn’t tell him. Did you?”

_“No…”_

“Then you know that they can never find out. Kouyou’s got too much to deal with as is, even if…” He trailed off. Even if Kouyou had made this happen purposefully. Takanori sighed; he’d told Shiroyama the truth over the phone, delivered in rushed, panicked mutterings, but fortunately Shiroyama knew better than to relay that particular piece of information to his more professional fellow officer. “I didn’t talk about their deal either. The prostitution thing. I just said that Kai had abused him for a while now.”

 _“Tanabe hasn’t said anything about it yet, so we’ll have to find out when we present the charges against him at the questioning. Something makes me think he won’t tell, though.”_ Shiroyama hummed. _“Well, not that it would have mattered much anyway. How is Takashima? Is he there?”_

“No,” Takanori said quietly. “Apparently someone found a clue, so he went to investigate. No idea where, I wasn’t invited.” He tried a small laugh, but couldn’t force the humor into it. “Calling you pissed him off even more, and now he hates me again… guess I got a talent for making him angry, it’s not the first time he disappears.”

 _“Maybe not, but the first time he ran away, he was gone for years,”_ Shiroyama reminded him.

The words struck a nerve, but the only thing Takanori could really do was lower his gaze to the floor still smudged with dirt where he’d not yet cleaned, gnawing at his lip because god damn, Shiroyama was right and he knew it, and he was worried out of his mind, but there was nothing he could do. “I know.”

Once they’d hung up he put the phone down again, staring blankly ahead at the work he’d abandoned, eyes trailing from the dirty floor to the boxes of torn fabric in the corner. They just sat there, a pile of horrible memories that had been cut apart and left to rot. Takanori scowled, digging through his pockets; Hirai was going to burn, once they got their hands on him, and Ishida was, too. Kai, on the other hand, would be sitting in a jail cell where neither of them could reach him.

Had anyone been around, they would have seen the growing vehemence in Takanori’s eyes, and they would likely have flinched from the sudden way he violently threw the half-empty pack of cigarettes to the floor, stalking towards the corner where the boxes stood. He dug through the scraps of fabric with bandaged hands as though searching for something that he couldn’t find. Resisting the urge to kick the boxes, Takanori grabbed his boots and jacket, putting them on, before getting each box and carrying them outside the apartment, down the stairs and outside the building. It was dark and freezing, snow falling softly in the night, and he released a heavy breath where he stood under streetlights, watching the hot air disappear in front of him, before slipping into the alley that separated Kouyou’s building from the blocks surrounding it. The space was narrow and dark, filled with dumpsters and little else. He hadn’t gone back there many times in his few months of living with Kouyou, except for a few times when he’d wanted to smoke in peace, out of sight from passersby. With not a single soul in sight, it was the perfect place for a private conversation, or a smoke in solitude.

Throwing the boxes to the ground, Takanori pulled the lighter from the pocket of his jeans, flicking on the small flame. Crouching down, he grabbed a scrap of fabric, feeling its texture scrape slightly against his fingertips, coarse, like it was something sheer. He hoped it was something Kai had particularly loved seeing Kouyou wear.

It burned well, either way.

 

Takanori woke the next day feeling strangely complacent. Judging by the quality of the light flooding the room through the open blinds, it had to be around noon; another late morning following a late night. Reaching out, he patted the empty spot next to him, sighing softly against the pillow as his hand met a cold mattress. Just as he thought, still alone in bed.

Not that Takanori had expected Kouyou to come back so soon, of course. Sitting up, he stretched, still feeling the fatigue heavy in his bones; he’d stayed out for what must have been at least an hour in freezing temperatures and heavy snow, watching the the fire dance blindingly bright as it reduced the last shreds of Kai’s so-called ‘gifts’ to ashes. It had been worth it though, because there was something deeply satisfying in watching them turn to nothing. Afterwards he’d dumped the empty boxes in the trash, leaving the charred remains to get covered in a thin layer of snow, and gone to bed. Though he was pretty sure the smoke completely permeated his whole being, Takanori didn’t care, nor did he regret it. The flames had been beautiful.

But a shower was in order, to clean the fumes and soot away and serve as a refresher. Once dressed, Takanori resumed the previous night’s task of cleaning the floor, filling the silence of the apartment with music as he worked. Washing up didn’t take too long, since he’d been halfway done already, but finishing up left Takanori with little left to do save for changing the bed sheets. He glanced out the window, looking out at the bright winter day. What he could see of the city almost looked quiet. What time was it? 

Actually, where was his phone? He’d left it on the sofa before storming out last night, and having gone straight to bed after, Takanori had completely forgotten about it. He cursed himself. Someone could have tried to contact him while he was away from the world; Kouyou could have called, Shiroyama could have important news. After a brief search he found it wedged between the cushions, and he threw himself down on the sofa and flipping it open.

Immediately he sat up again. There were two missed calls, both from Kouyou, both from last night… around the time he had been outside, playing with fire. Well, fuck. No voicemails were left for him, but if Kouyou was willing to call twice, there had to be something important going on.

“Great fucking job, Takanori,” he muttered angrily to himself as he moved to call up Kouyou again. The beeps were slower than ever, drowning out the music still coming from the speakers. No one was picking up. Which meant Kouyou either wasn’t around to take the call, or he no longer felt like talking to Takanori. Or he was prissy about not being answered last night; that was also a possibility. Takanori tried again, just in case, and this time the call was canceled. Yeah, definitely not feeling up to talking anymore. He gave the phone a sad look, giving up, but if Kouyou didn’t want to pick up, there was nothing Takanori could do about it.

So once again, Takanori settled to wait.

Just like the first time Kouyou had gone off the grid, there was little to do. Art and video games served as a nice way to kill time — he even found himself digging through the pile of books in boredom, giving reading a try only to doze off after a while. By the time he woke it was the next morning, and there was a crick in his neck from having slept on the small couch. It was quiet, too; still no sign of Kouyou coming back.

Kato hadn’t seen Kouyou either. Not that she had much reason to be concerned, as the police had yet to announce anything, but according to Shiroyama it would happen soon. A lengthy text informed him that Kai had confessed to the charges against him, keeping the truth to himself and not speaking a single word of their agreement. He seemed to have accepted his fate, making the decision to not pull Kouyou down with him. The update was almost enough to give Takanori some peace of mind.

It didn’t change the fact that Kouyou was refusing to answer his phone, though. Whatever hole it was that he had jumped into, Takanori hoped he was safe; he hoped Kouyou was choosing to stay at Akira’s for the time being, but it was just that — a hope. He wasn’t foolish enough to genuinely believe that, especially not when his phone buzzed to notify him of a new message as he was walking home. Had Akira known, he’d probably long since left a string of angry texts, or come over to deliver a non-verbal beating in person… but it had been a full day.

He opened the message, feeling his anxieties double in size as he read. _Shima doesn’t answer when I call. something you wanna tell me?_

So neither of them knew where Kouyou was hiding. And Kouyou ignoring Takanori was fair enough, but if he was refusing to answer Akira too, it could spell trouble. Shit, Akira didn’t even know what had happened. Kouyou probably wouldn’t be happy if he were to find out… Takanori buried his face in his hand. How would he even explain it? Akira had no idea — he didn’t know about Kai, about their deal, the money. The only thing Akira knew was that Kouyou was looking for someone in the name of revenge. He was likely not privy to Kouyou’s ideas, the people he dealt with and the darker, seedier nature of his methods, but that didn’t mean Akira didn’t deserve to be told.

Well, short of ignoring the situation, there was only one thing he could really do, but fuck. Takanori was really starting to hate phone calls.

_“Matsumoto, you better have a good explanation for me.”_

“Hey to you too, Suzuki.”

_“Don’t even try, dude. I’m talking about Shima going dark on me again. What stupid bullshit did you pull this time, huh? Is he there? Put him on.”_

“I can’t,” Takanori said, “he’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”

For a while, there was nothing on the other end but the sound of Akira’s slow breathing. Takanori bit his lip nervously, readying himself for whatever was to come, and when Akira spoke again, he sounded eerily calm despite the situation. _“So, what you’re saying is that he’s gone again.”_

“Look, Akira… it’s a long story—”

_“And you’re gonna tell me everything, you can be damn sure of it. Are you at his place? Of course you are. Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming over.”_

He frowned. “What’s going on?”

 _“Don’t go anywhere,”_ Akira repeated, hanging up.

Snapping the phone shut, Takanori grumbled something vile, and continued on the short trek home. So he really was about to get his face smashed in by Akira again, huh? Well, at least he would get the chance to explain himself first. Maybe, if he chose his words carefully, Akira wouldn’t resort to punching him around quite so much… then again, who was he kidding? It had been a long time of keeping secrets from their mutual friend, and he wasn’t exactly going to be pleased about it. About any of it.

Akira didn’t keep him waiting for long, announcing his presence with an impatient knocking on the door, and Takanori took a deep breath before letting him in. Just as expected, Akira didn’t waste much time before making his intention clear. “So you fucked up,” Akira started, crossing his arms and leaning against the back of the sofa. At least he was a decent person and actually took his shoes off before he began to make demands, Takanori thought, glancing down at the pristine floor beneath Akira’s socked feet. “You did something stupid again, and now Kouyou is missing. Again. Start talking.”

“I know what you think, but… look, it wasn’t even my fault this time. It’ll take a while to explain,” Takanori said hesitantly, not failing to notice the warning in Akira’s posture. “How much time do you have?”

“As long as it takes.” He didn’t look like he was about to budge anytime soon, so Takanori nodded, bowing his head as he considered his options. Fuck, where to start. “Matsumoto, I’m waiting.”

“Do you know anything about Kouyou’s… contacts?” The blank look Takanori was met with was answer enough, and he sighed. Fine. So he’d have to tell the whole story. “Alright, I’ll be blunt. Kouyou has been paying people to search for the guy who held him, but the money had to come from somewhere… turns out that he has been selling himself, in order to afford it.”

It took a moment for Akira to process the information, but his expression morphed into one of surprise, of disbelief. “Kouyou would never—”

“Yeah, well he _did,”_ Takanori cut in, and Akira shut up, though he didn’t look very convinced. “I didn’t want to think it either, but it’s true. There was… it’s one of the men from the videos. He must have tracked Kouyou down, somehow, and Kouyou agreed to it because… he was just that desperate.” Running a hand through his hair, Takanori shifted against the wall he leaned on as Akira’s skeptical stare urged him to continue, _dared_ him to offend Kouyou further. “The guy called himself Kai. Fake name, of course. He’s married, but they’d been having issues, so—”

“Just what are you accusing Kouyou of?!”

“Shut up and let me _talk_ , Suzuki, you’re the one who wanted to know!” Takanori snapped; Akira frowned deeply, huffing but ultimately kept his mouth shut to let Takanori explain. The truth was a long and convoluted affair, after all, and throughout the whole story Akira looked like he wanted to interrupt and deny it. While Takanori had expected that, he was confused. Akira knew Kouyou wanted revenge, right? He had to. Akira had seen the results of Hirai’s abuse first hand, and seeing the desire for vengeance extend to the other men who’d hurt him wasn’t that big of a stretch.

Akira seemed thoughtful, only raising his voice again after a long moment of silence once Takanori was done talking. “So he baited this man— _Kai_ over,” he stumbled over the name, “to kill him. That doesn’t sound like… how would he even have done it?”

“He has a knife,” Takanori said. “He brought one for me, too.”

“Did he now.” A pause, Akira’s eyes trailing across the room, as if looking for traces of Kai’s presence. He spotted the hole in the wall and bristled slightly, before looking away. “And now he’s gone off again, because you took that from him.”

“I didn’t have much choice, but Kouyou was really upset.” Takanori sighed. “I don’t know… something tells me he’s not coming back this time, ‘kira.”

Akira shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he said, finally leaving his spot by the couch, walking over to hesitantly run fingers across the broken plaster. “I know Kouyou. I’ve known him since forever, he wouldn’t… _do_ this. Putting some innocent woman at risk to kill someone? That’s not him, that’s not—” His fingers clenched into a fist, punching into the already ruined wall. Takanori had to fight to not roll his eyes.

“If you weren’t going to believe me anyway, why did I even bother?”

“No, it can’t be true,” Akira repeated through clenched teeth. “You have to be lying. I know Kouyou. He can be violent, sure, but he’s never been _vicious_. He’d never purposefully hurt someone… least of all a woman— a _pregnant_ woman, who hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s not who he is.”

“But you said so yourself, Akira,” Takanori said, feeling his own frustrations rising to the surface. “You don’t know him anymore.”

“You can’t say that and know! You weren’t there to see him through it, all those months in the hospital, in therapy, and Kouyou was never vengeful! He just wanted to move on!”

Takanori almost wanted to laugh. “Well, I understand now,” he muttered, “why he shut you out for so long.” God, he was craving a smoke. Something to occupy himself with before he said something stupid, but it was too late. The look Akira shot him was dangerous, daring him to elaborate, and Takanori took it. “He said that no one ever gets it. Kouyou told you everything, hell, you were _there_ through it all, and even then you didn’t understand. He _can’t_ move on, Suzuki, not when they’re still out there, not when he feels like he’s been made to belong to them! He can’t be fully free until they’re gone, even if it means he has to kill them himself!”

He drew a deep breath to steady himself. Saying it out loud just reinforced the thoughts that had been swirling around his head for so long — because it was true. Kouyou would never feel like he could move on if he didn’t get to end it the way he needed to, and Takanori had stolen that opportunity from him. He sagged back against the wall, feeling Akira’s burning stare as the tension ebbed out of his frame and left him drained. God, what a mess.

“You wanted the truth,” Takanori said slowly, “I’ve told you the truth. It’s not up to me whether you believe it or not.” 

Akira, too, looked resigned. The anger and energy had left him, his arms falling limply to his sides; bowing his head he wordlessly plopped down on the couch, covering his face with his hands. There was a choked sound, almost like a sob, and Takanori sighed, pushing away from the wall. He felt exceptionally awkward as he moved to sit next to Akira; it was weird to be so close to him again, after how violently they had parted last time, and to see him so emotionally vulnerable didn’t help matters. He was used to Akira being laid-back, a steady rock in any storm, and this was… foreign.

Thankfully it was Akira who spoke first. “I’m an idiot,” he said. Takanori resisted the urge to agree with him, and Akira groaned, throwing his head back against the cushion, staring into the ceiling. “I knew. I’d seen it, been there for him, and…” he grimaced; whatever he was thinking of, he didn’t seem too keen to talk about it. “He has a tattoo,” Akira said, running a finger down his side almost subconsciously, across his ribs where he knew Kouyou’s skin had been inked white with Hirai’s name. “It’s more like a brand, really.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“When Kouyou was well enough to talk and move around, he was offered to get it removed, but he turned them down. He said it would be pointless, so why even bother?”

Takanori nodded slowly, but chewed on the inside of his mouth a bit, uncertain as to where this was going.

“I guess… that’s the reason why. We need to find him, and quickly. We have to stop him before he…” Akira trailed off, but there was a deep pain in his eyes, like the very idea of where Kouyou might be was unbearable. Whatever he meant to say, Akira didn’t complete the sentence, ignored the confused stare he received in response. “Takanori, if you have any idea where he could have gone, if there’s any way to contact him, you _have_ to tell me. He went off with this— what’d you say his name was?”

“Jiro.”

“Jiro, right. And you have no idea where they went, or where they might have gone after?”

“No, Kouyou didn’t tell me. He didn’t want me to know anything at all after what I did,” Takanori said, pausing. “But… he tried to call me a couple times, later that night…”

“What?” Immediately Akira’s eyes were on him again. “And you didn’t pick up?!”

“I didn’t have my phone on me,” Takanori said defensively, raising his voice again as Akira looked ready to start yelling at him again, “I tried to call him back! But he refused to answer, so I guess it had just pissed him off more—”

Akira had gotten to his feet, his taller stature dwarfing Takanori where he sat. “Get your goddamn phone out right now and call Kouyou,” he demanded. Takanori stared blankly up at him, strongly feeling like he had missed something. “Do it!”

“Right, right,” Takanori muttered as he pulled his phone from his pocket, ignoring the almost desperate look in Akira’s eyes. Whatever was going through his head, Takanori didn’t know, but it had to be something bad if he was acting so _scared_. Fear and Akira had never been synonymous in his head; it felt weird, wrong. Worried, sure — angry, definitely, but _afraid?_

And of course, Kouyou wasn’t picking up. “There’s nothing,” Takanori said after a moment, drawing the phone from his ear as the call automatically cancelled, and Akira bristled, shaking his head as if he refused to accept it.

“Try again.”

“Akira, he clearly isn’t going to answer. Especially not to me calling him, what’s going on—”

“Try again, Matsumoto, or else I’ll rip the phone from your hands and do it myself.”

“Fucking… alright, no need to get violent,” Takanori muttered, and dialed again. More waiting, more beeping as he glanced nervously up at Akira, who was refusing to take his eyes off of him. He almost looked livid, but there was a real terror in his eyes, something Takanori had never seen on him before.

He chewed on his lip, pulling the phone away from his ear slightly, if only to alleviate the pressure in his forehead that was beginning to build up with the constant beeping. “‘kira… what are you so afraid of—?”

But he didn’t get to finish the question, as the line was picked up. Immediately Takanori snapped back to attention, eyes wide, cutting off his previous train of thought; Akira was quick to notice, stilling where he stood, so quiet Takanori was almost convinced he was holding his breath. “Kouyou?” he tried, worry growing when there was no sound from the other end. “Kouyou, are you there?”

For a moment there was nothing, just a slight rustling noise, and what sounded like breathing. _“You know,”_ a foreign voice said, _“there is nothing worse I know than people changing their plans midway through. It always ruins my day.”_

Takanori’s breath caught in his throat. 

_“I mean, we had a deal here. An agreement. I had a job to do, and it was clear, simple. Easy money. But then the new guy came around, and now it seems I’ve been given the boot. Doesn’t that just infuriate you, Takanori? The idea of it?”_

He couldn’t think. The phone was gripped in his hand so hard it almost hurt, and Takanori barely even noticed when Akira nudged him, “What’s going on? What is he saying?”

“Put Kouyou on the line, Jiro,” Takanori said, and Akira froze. 

On the other side, there was a slight laughter. _“Sorry, can’t. Not there, since I’m not needed anymore. I was originally going to deliver you a message, when you called, you see? But at least I got to keep his cell, and because I’m angry, I’ll tell you a secret. Consider yourself lucky. Someone will come by to see you soon, an old friend, to give you the message I was meant to deliver.”_

“Jiro, what the fuck did you do?” Takanori breathed out. The headache was building up, heart racing in his chest with fear at not knowing what was going on, what had happened to Kouyou. “Where is he?”

 _“No, you see. He had his plans, but I had mine, and if not for this mess, it would probably have been the best job I’d ever done.”_ There was a discontented groan, almost betraying the frustration well-disguised in his smooth, accented voice. _“But, since I won’t get my money’s worth after all, I suppose this is my own revenge, of sorts… so I am sorry to tell, Taka, that your boyfriend will not be coming back this time. Not after what we did to him.”_

The world was falling apart. Takanori was trying to put the words together, drawing an image in his mind of what Jiro had done, and it was ugly. “You betrayed him?” he exclaimed, ignoring Akira’s slight flinch, his scared, wide-open eyes. “After everything he’s been through, you— what did you _do?!”_

 _“Sweet, sweet Taka, don’t pretend to be surprised. Why did you ever expect differently?”_ Takanori swore he could hear the man smiling. _“It is who I am, after all, and you both knew it. So I am sorry, kid, but the other guy paid better.”_

Before Takanori could get the chance to reply, there was a horrible crunching noise, and the line went dead.


	42. Chapter 42

“We have to find him,” Akira said. He was pacing, walking in frustrated circles in the small space of the living room, “we have to do something.”

Takanori said nothing. He didn’t know what to say, much less what to do. Kouyou was gone, and he had no way of knowing where he’d been taken or how to find him again, but all he could think of was the last he’d seen of him — standing outside Jiro’s car, like he was contemplating getting in, if he dared to be driven away from his home and to Hirai’s hideout where he would be alone with nothing but Jiro’s presence and Hirai’s belongings.

He’d looked so _wary_ , and yet he had gotten in anyway, almost out of spite. There was a bad taste in Takanori’s mouth.

The sound of crushed metal still vibrated in his ears. Takanori rubbed his temples, trying in vain to alleviate the pounding headache he was currently suffering, one brought on by stress and anxiety, though his own pain was the farthest thing from his thoughts. He was afraid. Calling Kouyou’s number again lead to nothing but the voicemail, as though the phone had been turned off or… been destroyed. Jiro had to have broken it, now that he’d done what he had set out to do. But the info had been too vague to give Takanori anything to go by, and only the facts remained: Kouyou was gone. Jiro had lead him behind the light, and now someone had him.

“Are you even listening to me?” Akira snapped. “Don’t just sit there! _Do_ something!”

“I’m trying to remember,” Takanori said, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to focus on the memory of what else he had seen as Kouyou disappeared, “the car, what it looked like… what the license plate was… fuck,” he swore under his breath, staring listlessly at the floor. “It might have been black, but… I don’t think I saw the number, it was too dark.”

“You don’t remember _anything?”_

He growled, frustrated at himself for not being able to remember anything useful. “Shit, Akira, I don’t know anything about cars. You know that.”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t know anything useful at all, and now Kouyou’s out there somewhere, alone and in danger, while you sit here and can’t _remember?”_ Akira threw his arms up in the air. “Great! Exactly what we need right now, Matsumoto.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Takanori muttered. He already knew this was all his fault, and now he sat there, completely useless and unable to do anything to fix his mistakes. Maybe it was too late to fix it… it had been two days, now. Someone had had Kouyou for two days, and though they didn’t know who they were, Takanori had his suspicions. 

He prayed he was wrong.

“But it’s weird, I mean… Kouyou didn’t seem like he even wanted to get in,” Takanori said quietly. “The way he looked at the car, it makes me wonder if he knew this would happen. What Jiro said… I was supposed to come with him, but then I called the cops and ruined everything. And maybe this wouldn’t have happened if Kouyou had let me come… I don’t think he wanted to be alone. Maybe Kouyou knew what Jiro would do—”

The sudden slam against ruined plaster informed him that Akira punched the wall. Takanori’s mouth snapped shut mid-sentence, a hand tightening where it had curled into his hair while he spoke, but Akira didn’t turn to look at him, keeping his eyes glued to the hole where his fist had slammed perfectly into the dent Kai had left. “It’s because of you,” he said, so lowly Takanori barely made out the words. “Hell, it’s the exact same as back then. Maybe Kouyou knew what could happen if he got into that car, maybe he wanted to refuse. But he got in anyway because _you_ were there, Matsumoto.”

Takanori bowed his head, feeling the burn of Akira’s eyes on him. “You know what I’m getting at, don’t you?” Akira said, and Takanori could only nod. He remembered the story all too well, and now the thought of it was making shame, guilt and self-decapitation roll in like waves threatening to drown him. 

“He only got into the car because he felt betrayed and wanted to get away,” Takanori whispered. “From his boyfriend, from his family—”

“From _you!”_

Takanori fell silent at the outburst, not daring to meet Akira’s eyes. “Kouyou only got in because _you_ were there. He only went alone because the shit you pulled was the last goddamn straw and he’d rather risk his damn life than have you tag along, even if he knew it would probably save him. And now he’s out there, at the mercy of— fuck, this is my _nightmare_ come to life.”

He started pacing again. Takanori gnawed at his lip, mind racing. “You think it was Hirai?”

“It could be,” Akira said, an uncertainty in his voice like he couldn’t decide which option was worse. “Fuck, it really could be. Goddamn, I can’t think. We need to find him. Find the guy. Jiro. How the hell are we gonna do that?”

“I don’t know. Kouyou never let me in on who he was working with, how he found them in the first place. Maybe we should just call the police,” Takanori suggested. “But… Jiro said someone is coming to see me. They could know.”

“What, so we just sit around here and wait, is that what you’re saying?”

“Fuck, Akira, I don’t know! We need to be here when they come, whoever they are, but who knows when that’ll happen? It could take days, for all we know, and then it might be too late— we should let someone know what’s going on, at the very least. Call the cops, maybe they can help.”

Akira grunted. “Yeah, because that worked out so well last time.”

“Not like we have a lot of options right now, and for fuck’s sake, could you stop walking back and forth like that?”

Akira crossed his arms and glared, but at least he stopped pacing. “How about you give that cop of yours a call,” he said, “see what he has to say of the situation.”

“What? Why?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

He shot Akira a flat look, but the gaze was unwavering. “Fine,” Takanori muttered, reaching for his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that week alone. “Fine, whatever.”

This time it took unusually long before Shiroyama picked up. _“Matsumoto? This is kind of a bad time.”_ The tone was glum, but before he had the chance to ask what was going on, Akira raised his voice.

“Put it on speaker.”

Takanori did, setting the phone on the table, giving Akira a questioning glance, but he didn’t look back. “Shiroyama, I really need to talk to you. Do you have the time? Is something going on?”

From Shiroyama’s end, there was an exasperated sigh. _“This department’s a mess,”_ he said, _“Even after we finished the questioning, after everything that’s happened in the last few days… Tanabe said he hadn’t heard anything from Hirai since he disappeared. So… they don’t think it’s worth it, wasting more time trying to find him again. I’m still on the clock, but I’m leaving because I just— I can’t, Matsumoto. I can’t do this again. All of that, and for nothing! At this rate I’ll end up quitting…”_

There was an angry set to Akira’s features, but he stayed quiet, leaving the talking to Takanori rather than letting the man know there was someone else listening in. “Shiroyama,” Takanori said carefully, “Listen, I just got a call. Kouyou has gone missing. We think Hirai might have him.” 

For a while, he fell silent. Akira huffed, staring at the phone where it sat on the table with something like contempt, almost daring Shiroyama to say something. In the brief moment he waited, Takanori found himself wondering if they knew each other before Shiroyama’s voice crackled across the line again, sounding slightly out of breath. _“I had to… find someplace private, please explain what happened. Are you saying Hirai contacted you?”_

Takanori frowned; there was a hint of something in Shiroyama’s tone that he didn’t like. “No, it was one of Kouyou’s guys, the one he left with. He had Kouyou’s phone, and I was the one who called because Kouyou has been gone for a few days now, and then this guy picked up instead, said they had done… something to Kouyou. That he had been working for someone else.” He drew a deep breath before continuing. “I think that someone could be Hirai.”

 _“I can call this in,”_ Shiroyama said after a short moment, _“if something like this were to happen to Takashima, maybe then they’ll finally… is there any way of confirming it was him? Do you know where they went?”_

“No, but apparently I’m expecting a visitor who’s got… something to tell me. Don’t know when they’ll be coming or who they are, he was pretty vague on that part. But they might know.”

 _“That could be dangerous.”_ Shiroyama seemed thoughtful for a bit. _“Do you need help? I could get someone there to protect you… or come over myself?”_

Takanori glanced over at Akira, who was angrily glaring at the phone. Still, he considered it. “Do you have a gun?” he asked, getting a rather surprised noise from Shiroyama in response, and Akira looked to him questioningly.

_“What? Yes, but… do you really think it’ll be necessary?”_

“Bring it with you,” Takanori said, “just as a precaution. Who knows what we’re dealing with here.” At that, Shiroyama relented, saying he’d be over as soon as he could — when Akira finally left his spot by the wall, grabbing the phone from where it sat on the table. Takanori raised an eyebrow, mouthing a question of _‘what are you doing?’_ but Akira ignored him, pressing the speaker button and cutting off Shiroyama mid-sentence. 

“Hello,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and leaving Takanori to only hear one half of the conversation, “this is Suzuki Akira. Remember me? I thought you might not. Kouyou’s best friend, that ring any bells?”

Whatever Akira wanted, it didn’t take very long. Takanori sat back, watching Akira speak on his phone; it seemed all he really wanted was to make Shiroyama aware he was there, but his voice held a threatening tone, as if he was warning Shiroyama to hold his act together. Finally, after a short while that felt much longer than it really was, Akira hung up and tossed the cell on the couch, just missing Takanori’s lap. He frowned, but Akira only shrugged. “Can’t have your cop buddy come over and shoot me because he didn’t know I was here, can we?”

“Do you two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” he said simply, and Takanori glared at him. “What? He was assigned to Kouyou’s case, of course he came to us with questions. And since I was one of the last people Kouyou saw before he was…” he trailed off, shoulders sinking as that haunted look returned to his face. Right, Takanori reminded himself. Guilt. “So yeah, we’ve met a fair few times.”

“Akira…” Reaching out, he laid a hand on Akira’s shoulder, hoping to— comfort him, maybe, if only to make him less sad, but Akira shook him off. He tried anyway. “You _know_ it wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have known—”

“Don’t bother,” Akira interrupted. “I’ve heard that enough times, I sure as hell don’t need it coming from _you_. I just… why did he call you, instead of me?”

Takanori couldn’t even feel angry at the dismissal, stepping back as Akira heavily sat down on the couch. Why _did_ Kouyou call him? Even with all that anger, Takanori was still the person he contacted, but what had he even wanted to say? Did he try to call for help, or… did he mean to say something else entirely? It was a good question, one Takanori mulled over as he walked to the counter, grabbing the knife Kouyou had given him. He pocketed it, just in case; they didn’t know who it was that Jiro warned them would come by, or when.

The wait was more awkward than anything. There was little to say as the minutes slowly ticked by, and even less to do, save for watching Akira look through Kouyou’s piles of games and unread books. It was nearly an hour before the knock on the door finally came, and Akira looked about ready to jump out of his seat before Shiroyama’s voice came through the door. “Matsumoto? It’s me.” 

That pissed off look quickly returned to Akira’s face, but he was content with staying on the sofa as Takanori went to open up, letting Shiroyama inside. The man slipped his shoes off, acknowledging Akira’s presence with a nod in his direction.

For once, Shiroyama didn’t stall. “Here,” he said, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out the gun; it was smaller than Takanori had expected, but it gleamed dangerously in the lamplight, black and promising pain. He drew a deep breath, feeling his heart beat erratically in his chest, and nodded. There was a slight smile to Shiroyama’s mouth as he put the gun away. “You know, if I get caught sneaking around with a gun, I’m done for,” he said, “but if it helps out in any way… then it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Also, I got this.” He drew something else out, a long, metallic cylinder. Takanori raised an eyebrow. “Just in case. It’s a silencer.”

“Do you think we’re gonna have to use it?”

“No idea. But you said you had no idea who’s coming, right? Just that they could have something to do with Hirai? So if they turn out to be dangerous, and if a gun isn’t threat enough and we end up having to actually use it… at least it won’t alert the whole neighbourhood.” Something dark overcame his expression, and the slight curve to his lips didn’t help matters “And besides, if it really is him… I know I have to notify the department, but let’s just say I have some unfinished business first.”

Takanori sighed, contemplating what to do next. He was quickly realizing that this _really_ wasn’t a great idea — but at least they were well prepared. “I might as well tell you what happened,” Takanori said, gesturing over to the sofa. “Only so much I got to say on the phone. Come sit down.” Akira looked deliberately unfriendly where he sat, letting his posture speak for him with arms crossed and legs far apart, and Takanori rolled his eyes at the blatant hostility. “Akira…”

Shiroyama sat down anyway, as if it didn’t bother him in the slightest. “It’s alright,” he insisted. “With my line of work, it takes a lot to make me uncomfortable. Now, tell me what happened.”

 

Explaining the events to Shiroyama went surprisingly smoothly, but then he _was_ a professional, even with his prior fuckups. Surprisingly, he had heard of Jiro; according to him, Jiro was a wanted man, notorious in the underground for his talents, but he was hard to find and harder to catch. Takanori’s brief description didn’t come as news, but nonetheless quickly got scribbled down in Shiroyama’s small notebook that he’d brought despite not actually being on the job. 

Still, once Takanori was done, Shiroyama looked somewhat dubious. He pressed his thumb to his lip in thought, brows furrowing. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “The way you describe it is so similar to when he was kidnapped, when Saji got him. Why would he let that happen again?”

“That’s what I want to know too,” Takanori said solemnly. “There’s no way he couldn’t have considered it. He said it himself, Jiro only cares about money, same as Saji. Kouyou knows that… so either he was too angry at me to give a shit about his own safety, or he thought he could handle it if Jiro did fuck him over.”

Akira let out a displeased sounding grunt from where he stood leaned against the counter, having eventually decided to leave his seat to put some distance between him and Shiroyama. Takanori looked questioningly at him, and Akira sighed. “I just wonder… you said Kouyou had a knife. Did he bring it?”

Takanori paused, trying to think. Kouyou had been toying with it when Kai was there, but after… “I don’t know,” Takanori said after a short while. “He probably did. I haven’t seen it since he left.” And why wouldn’t he have? Finding Hirai and killing him was the end goal, so of course Kouyou would bring his knife, just in case — and it was a beautiful thought, the mental image of Kouyou slicing Jiro and Hirai both to shreds… Akira looked away, something in his eyes that almost looked like morbid curiosity, perhaps like he was thinking the exact same thing. 

No, that wasn’t it. There was a terror in his expression, too. Like a realization that something he feared was coming true.

“So then he wasn’t defenseless, but whether he’d actually try… now I just can’t help but wonder if he let this happen on purpose.” Akira’s voice was soft, almost meant for nobody but himself, and Takanori raised an eyebrow when he didn’t elaborate. Even Shiroyama bowed his head, avoiding eye contact as if he didn’t want to acknowledge Akira’s words.

It was like they were thinking the same thing, but Takanori was left out of the loop, and he raised an eyebrow, looking to them both and waiting for one of them to explain. “What do you mean, Akira?” he asked when neither said anything. “Why wouldn’t he try to defend himself?”

“I don’t know, he never really talked to me much about any of this stuff. He never even told me what he was actually trying to do. But you know, it’s not like he could ever run from his problems, and whenever it came up… I guess I always got the feeling that none of it was genuine,” Akira admitted. “Yeah, I know that I’ve been an idiot when it comes to Kouyou, but there is something I am sure of. The things you say about him — Shima just isn’t like that, even if he wants to be. I don’t think it was ever real anger. It was more like… a wall. Something in place to cover the way he actually felt, hoping he could fool himself in the process.” He sighed. “I mean, it worked with you, so why not?”

Takanori frowned. What Akira was saying didn’t exactly answer his question — nor did it really match up with the Kouyou he knew. He looked to Shiroyama, who was still silent, but clearly listening to every word coming out of Akira’s mouth. “Just what are you saying, Suzuki?”

“Just because he has a weapon doesn’t mean he’ll be able to use it when the time comes. Or at least, not for what you think.” When Takanori’s face only showed further confusion, Akira groaned. “What, you didn’t tell him?” he said to Shiroyama, whose only response was to look away, almost as if in shame. “Really? You actually _do_ know how to keep something to yourself? Looks like I underestimated you, Yuu. You’re actually capable of not ruining everything around you, makes me wonder if you did all of it on purpose.”

“I couldn’t have told him that,” Shiroyama muttered. “It wasn’t my place to tell.”

“Shut the hell up, Shiroyama. None of it was any of your business, but that didn’t stop you from running your mouth, did it?” Akira said accusingly. “You _are_ the one who told him all of Kouyou’s deepest, darkest secrets, aren’t you?”

Shiroyama fell silent again, wordlessly confirming it, and Takanori shot Akira a baffled look. “Akira, what is your problem?”

“My goddamn problem? Shima is _gone_ , Matsumoto. He’s gone, possibly back to the fucker who had him for _two years,_ who fucking killed his spirit, and he went there knowing he wouldn’t stand a chance—”

“But _why?”_ Takanori shot in. “He’s wanted this for years, he’s waited ages for it, and if he brought the knife it’s not like he would be defenseless—”

“And you think that’d be enough? That having a knife in his hand and coming face to face with Hirai would be enough to make him feel like he could do it, after everything that’s happened? You think you know him so well, Takanori, but you don’t. You don’t know how his head works, how he thinks, how he _changed_ while he was—”

“Well then fucking explain! What do you _mean?!”_

This time it was Shiroyama who spoke. “What he is trying to say is that Takashima probably expected this would happen,” he said, “and maybe he even wanted it to.”

“What?” It took Takanori a second to register just what Shiroyama said. “Why the fuck?”

He felt lost. It didn’t make sense anymore, although he was seemingly the only one in the conversation who didn’t understand, and Akira chuckled mirthlessly. 

“See? Now you’re the one who doesn’t get it. But how could you know? You weren’t there, you didn’t see Kouyou at his lowest, like I did. Like Shiroyama over here did.” There was a notable growl in his voice as he said it. “But the truth is that he left out a tiny bit of crucial information when he was telling you everything behind Kouyou’s back. Which is weird when you think about it, really. Isn’t divulging confidential info something of a hobby of yours, Yuu?”

“Look, Suzuki, I didn’t want to go that far. It was… too personal, and it didn’t matter at the time, why would I have?”

“It didn’t matter? You know as well as I that Kouyou has been deliberately putting himself in danger for months now, and now you dare tell me that _it didn’t matter?!_ Of course it does!”

“Akira!” Takanori yelled, fed up. “Calm the fuck down. Just _communicate_ , will you? What did he keep from me?” He looked over to Shiroyama, who drew a deep breath as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. “Well?”

“Back when I first went there,” Shiroyama started, sounding small and unsure. “Down into Hirai’s basement, Takashima’s condition was… I didn’t lie. He was blind and very weak, but he was awake. Enough to talk to me. And he…” Trailing off, he bit at his lip, seemingly unable to carry on. “Kouyou didn’t want to come with me. At first he must’ve thought I was there to retrieve him for another one of Hirai’s… projects, but even after I made it clear that I was there to free him, he refused. He kept asking me to…”

Takanori wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest, but he needed to know, even if he’d hate it. “To do what? What did he want?” he tried, but Shiroyama grew quiet again. “What is so damn important that you can’t be out with it? What is it that you kept from me until now, Shiroyama?”

“He didn’t tell you how Kouyou _asked to die.”_

Akira’s words were delivered through clenched teeth, and Shiroyama nodded slowly, ignoring the hitch in Takanori’s breath, continuing before Takanori got a chance to protest. “Back then he would rather have died, than to finally be free, and a part of me thinks that… he _wants_ to go back, because that room in Hirai’s basement is the only world he really knows anymore.”

“It can’t be,” Takanori murmured after a long while, slumping back onto the sofa. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, blurry with — tears, probably, he didn’t know. “All that work, all that time, he— he can’t go back. Hirai needs to die, that’s why he left, that’s what it was always about, so why would…”

“Then why did he let Tanabe do what he did?” Shiroyama asked, “Why would he keep going back, if not that it was just easier that way? If some part of him thought it would be best? It would be familiar territory.”

Takanori shook his head. “He wanted _control.”_ He remembered Kouyou’s words, his breakdowns, the few times the truth came spilling out of him because everything grew too much— “Kouyou wanted to… own it, he said. There would be _rules,_ and he would get the money, and—”

“And use it to find Hirai,” Akira finished. “You said Kouyou wanted revenge, but I’m still not sure if you’re right, if he ever meant it.”

Takanori just closed his eyes. He was so tired, exhausted from all the thoughts swirling around in his head. It could all have been a lie. Everything Kouyou had ever said could have been a lie, no matter how convincing. And those rules that had been laid out to Kai had been broken, anyway. “It was the only thing he seemed to care about,” he murmured.

“I think… he was gone from us for so long, we thought he wouldn’t make it,” Akira said softly. “Even in the hospital it took months before he even responded to us, though that was more to do with the lighting in his room. His doctors had no idea about the conditioning, that the blindness was more physiological than physical… but I think Shiroyama is right, at least to some degree. If he is, then my greatest fear is really coming to life, and Shima is…” he sniffled, reaching up to scratch his nose, eyes lowered and full of darkness. “The Kouyou that I knew, the best friend I grew up with, he’s long dead. After he got back he was just… lost. He had no ambition anymore, no dreams or desires, there was just… nothing. Then one day he seemed to change, said he wanted to move to Tokyo.”

“Because he wanted to go back?”

Akira shook his head. “At first I thought he just needed to get away and get a fresh start somewhere else. Everyone knew about him back home after what happened. I mean, people recognize him here too, because of the scandal—” Takanori did not miss the venomous glare briefly sent Shiroyama’s way— “but moving here was always the plan, back when we were kids, and I figured he just liked it in Tokyo. Now I wonder if he left because he knew Hirai could still be around.”

“But you say he never wanted it.”

“Not genuinely. But he couldn’t stay home and keep wasting away, he needed to have something, a goal, anything. And revenge makes sense, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what you would have done, if you were in his place? Wouldn’t you want revenge if someone wronged you? _Shouldn’t_ you?”

Takanori frowned. He didn’t want to believe any of what Shiroyama and Akira were saying, didn’t want to wrap his head around it, but he had no choice. Kouyou had always lied to protect himself; he knew that, but that it went so far as to mean he never truly wanted his vengeance at all— it was… too much.

He covered his eyes. He thought back to Kouyou’s confessions, trying to recall Kouyou ever saying something that could hint at them being _right_ , that it was all a lie. Everything he had admitted to, his guilt and his grief, the regret he couldn’t allow himself to feel despite what he’d lost — his friends, his future, his music. The numbness. The hostile world he found himself in, where everybody knew his name, his face, what he’d suffered. How he let Takanori stay, despite everything. 

But most of all, he remembered the lost look in Kouyou’s eyes as he approached Kai with the knife, ready to strike him down. Like none of it was real, and he was only doing it because it made _sense._

Fuck, and now he really was crying. Muttering a curse under his breath, Takanori tried — and failed — to swallow a sob, hating the way he couldn’t control the hot tears that were building up and overflowing. Akira pressed a hand against his back, almost as if in comfort; it was the gentlest touch between them since their fallout. “At least that’s my theory,” Akira said, trying to force a smile to his face. It ended up half twisted, almost a grimace, and Takanori laughed brokenly through his tears. God, he felt pathetic.

“If you’re right,” he forced himself to say, “then I guess Kou got me good, huh?”

“He sure must have.” The weight disappeared from his back, and the warmth with it. “You’ve spent more time with Kouyou this year alone than I have in the past five, he hasn’t exactly wanted to hang a lot lately…”

Shiroyama shushed them. “Wait,” he said where he stood, eyes darting between the front door and the walls, like he was following a noise out in the hallway. “Someone’s coming.”

Takanori stilled his breath, trying to hear the same as Shiroyama — and there it was, the faint sound of wet footfalls that were gradually getting louder, wet rubber squeaking against the floor before falling silent right outside the door. _Fuck,_ Takanori thought, _they’re finally here._

They knocked. 

Akira stood up, a steely set to his face. Takanori almost wanted to pull him back down — between the three of them, Akira was the only one who was unarmed, after all — but he didn’t. Getting to his feet, he hastily attempted to wipe the tears from his face, a hand readily hovering over the pocketed knife, but Akira was already by the door, sliding the lock out of place and pulling it open.

A pair of wide eyes greeted them. The guy at the door was tall and pale with a mess of black cropped hair, and the newcomer blinked, unnerved by Akira’s harsh stare. “Um, am I— am I at the right place?” He looked away, glancing nervously between Akira and Shiroyama, surprise and confusion marring his features before his eyes met Takanori’s. Then, something resembling a wary smile breached his face. “Matsumoto!”

Akira looked over to Takanori, an eyebrow raised in question, but Takanori didn’t notice. The hand over his knife was curling into a fist, nails biting into the palm as a deep-set rage flared up inside him, filling him with such an intense hatred that he barely even remembered to breathe. Stepping forward Takanori shoved Akira aside, grabbing Ishida by the arm and pulling him inside so roughly he lost his footing and tumbled to the floor.

“You have some fucking _explaining_ to do.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so everything is em dashes now. it sure does look neater this way, huh?

Coming face to face with Ishida again was almost bizarre. It had been months since they last spoke, even longer since they’d seen each other, and standing over him now felt… strange. Not just that, but infuriating. If Akira and Shiroyama hadn’t been present, Takanori would likely long since have pulled the knife out, ready to drive it into Ishida’s face.

But he controlled himself, allowing Ishida to get his bearings and pull himself up to sit on the floor, because they needed him. Jiro had claimed that someone was coming to deliver a message, this _old friend_ of his bearing news of Kouyou, and maybe he even knew where he was being held — but Takanori would be lying if he thought something didn’t feel off about the whole thing, and it was not just because he was surprised to see Ishida be the messenger.

The Ishida he had known, the colleague he’d seen nearly every day for a year in that miserable convenience store was definitely a terrible person, no doubt about it — but he did a good job hiding it from those who weren’t aware, and he had come across as almost pitiable if you didn’t know him that well. The manager had liked him well enough, even Fujimoto had cared for him, though she thought he was a bit of an oddball. Takanori had been no different, finding Ishida to be tolerable if annoying, and his opinion of him hadn’t changed much over the months they worked together. The Ishida Takanori had known was driven but anxious, a lonely, gleeful deviant who longed for companionship. But now, as he cowered on the floor between the three of them, Takanori got a chance to really _look_ at the man who’d tried and somewhat succeeded to bait him into a strange sort of friendship; if there was any way to describe Ishida now, it was that he looked drained. Takanori could see the dulled fear in his eyes from being cornered, but despite the hostile atmosphere his attention seemed to be drifting elsewhere, and the trying smile was wiped from his face.

If Takanori hadn’t known Ishida so well, if he wasn’t so full of hatred, he might even feel sorry for him. 

Akira crossed his arms across his chest, staring down at the man by his feet. “So you’re the errand boy, are you?” he said, getting straight to the point. “Who sent you? Why are you here?”

“Errand boy?” Ishida repeated, glancing up at the strangers. “I’m… I wanted to say, that— I missed you,” he stammered, directing his attention towards the only familiar face in the room, “no one told me you would have company.”

Shiroyama cleared his throat. “Um, Matsumoto, this a friend of yours?”

He was ignored. “Answer the question,” Takanori said.

“Who sent me…” Ishida was chewing on his lip, long fingers curling and uncurling on the floor, eyes darting between them and empty space. His gaze kept lingering on Shiroyama. “I was just told this is where you’d be, where he lived,” he said. Pausing, he ignored the impatient huff when his focus strayed, daring a smile up at Shiroyama. “I know you! You’re— you’re that cop, aren’t you! The one who—”

Shiroyama shifted his weight, something dark flickering in his expression. “Answer the question,” Takanori said again, what little remained of his patience quickly running out. “Who sent you?”

The smile died as quickly as it had appeared. “Nobody,” Ishida said, and Takanori felt something in him snap. They didn’t have time to let Ishida bullshit around. Kouyou could be injured or worse, and yet Ishida had the gall to come, to sit on the floor in Kouyou’s living room and waste their time instead of saying something useful that could help them — growling, Takanori allowed himself to lose his restraint for a moment, delivering a sharp kick to Ishida’s stomach, ignoring the surprised gasp from Shiroyama as he did so.

If he hadn’t been so desperate for answers, it would even have felt good. “Fucking _speak!”_ Takanori yelled, shrugging Akira’s warning hand from his arm; if he wanted to kick Ishida’s ass, then he wasn’t going to let anyone stop him. “You know why you’re here, you piece of shit, you know what we want!”

“Hey, hey, Matsumoto, there’s no need to—”

“Don’t try me, Shiroyama. I’m not gonna ask again. Who the fuck sent you, Ishida?”

“Ishida?” Akira repeated, eyes darkening in recognition as he looked down at the man who was curled up and clutching his beaten stomach, trying to catch his breath. “Really? Well, that changes things.”

It was seemingly only a split second later that Akira had dragged Ishida from the floor and slammed him against the wall, choking the air from him a second time. “You are going to tell us everything we need to know _right now,_ or I can assure you that you won’t walk away from this in one piece. Do we have an understanding?” he demanded, barely giving Ishida the time to answer before shoving him against the wall again, and Ishida nodded, wheezing out a frightened ‘yes’, if only to make Akira stop. 

Letting go, Akira stepped away and watched Ishida sag against the wall, loudly gasping for gulps of air. “Nobody… nobody sent me,” he forced out, “I came on my own, nobody sent me, I swear…”

“Like fuck you did,” Takanori cut in, “you’ve never had the balls to do anything alone. Someone told you what to do. How’d you even know where to go?”

“I found…” a cough, and Ishida cleared his throat, bracing his hands against the wall like he needed something to hold onto. “I found him, I told you,” he said, “he told me you would be here. That I should… try to mend things between us, but I know it’s too late… that’s not why I’m here. Hirai was wrong. You’d never listen to me.”

At his side, Shiroyama shifted uncomfortably, and Akira swallowed thickly. So he’d been right; Hirai _was_ the one. “Does he have Kouyou?” Akira asked, a hint of fear in his voice despite the sharp tone, and Ishida hung his head. It was answer enough. “Fucking _fuck.”_

That answered that question, at least; biting his lip, Takanori carefully eyed the way Shiroyama’s hand slid into his jacket, and he could only imagine he was reaching for the gun, considering using it — clearing his throat to catch his attention, he shook his head in warning as Shiroyama looked over. Not that Takanori didn’t understand how Shiroyama had to be feeling; he had searched years for anything on Hirai, the man who had ruined his life, and now that he found himself in the same room as someone who had been able to track Hirai down, someone who had _talked_ to him… it was so tempting to extend that violence to Ishida. But they needed him. As much as Takanori hated to acknowledge it, he was their only hope of finding Kouyou.

Akira, meanwhile, looked about ready to tear his hair out. Takanori glanced over to Ishida again; what he was saying… it didn’t make sense. “Why did you come? You know better than to think I’d be happy to see you after—” he bit off the words, feeling that wave of disgust creep into his voice again, but now it was directed at himself. After what he’d done to Kouyou, all because Ishida never felt the need to tell him what was really going on — not that Takanori could shove the blame onto anyone but himself. He drew a deep, shaky breath to keep the rage down, his voice even. “You didn’t come here, hoping we’d be friends again. Even _you_ aren’t that stupid.”

Ishida shook his head. “No. He… Hirai played me,” he uttered. “He lied.”

Takanori raised an eyebrow.

“For months… he said, do what I tell you, he said, and when the time was— was right, he’d teach me how to… he’d make me an artist. I wanted to learn. I wanted to be his ap— his apprentice, I _idolized_ him, but then—” Tears were choking his breath, words coming jumbled and stuttered, “he told me to _leave!_ That I was— naive, to think someone like _me_ could be like him…” Ishida trailed off, reaching up to harshly wipe his face, eyes glassy and staring at nothing. “He betrayed me.”

“So you found out Hirai wasn’t the man you believed him to be, huh?” That was Shiroyama’s voice, tight and barely restrained of an underlying anger. “He does that a lot.”

Ishida sniffled. “I had never been angrier. Hirai betrayed me. He needs to pay for that. I came here because, you… Takanori, if anyone deserves to have blind boy, it’s you,” Ishida said shakily. “I know you want to… I know that I said no, at first, but now… now, I understand. I can take you to him, but…” Eyes drifting to the strangers, to Shiroyama and Akira, he paused. “But those two can’t come.”

“Like hell we can’t.”

“Fuck you they won’t come,” Takanori sneered. His fingers were twitching to reach for the knife. “You think you have the power to demand anything, after everything you’ve done?”

“I don’t feel safe near them,” Ishida said hesitantly. Glancing between them, his eyes settled warily on Akira, lowering his voice. “Especially not that guy… I mean, who is he anyway? What is he so angry for?”

“Who am I?” Akira repeated, sounding baffled. “Who I am doesn’t matter. Who the fuck do you think _you_ are? Don’t try to lie. I know your type, people like you — monsters, all of you.” A growl was forcing its way to the surface as he spoke; Ishida backed off, even though he had nowhere to go. “You have no goddamn say in _anything_ here, so how _dare_ you try to keep Kouyou from me—”

“I didn’t know blind boy had so many fans our age,” Ishida murmured, too busy guarding himself from Akira’s wrath to notice the hatred flashing in Takanori’s eyes, being the only one in the room close enough to hear his indistinct muttering. Summoning all the strength he could muster, Takanori grabbed Ishida by the arm and slammed him against the wall again, earning a surprised gasp as the air was punched out of him.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, Ishida,” Takanori hissed. “You are going to get over this fucking idea that you have any kind of authority here, and you’re gonna tell us where Hirai and Kouyou are, and you’re gonna take us to them. All three of us. If you think for a second that you have a choice here…” 

Pulling himself together, Ishida drew a deep breath. “It’s so sad. We are so alike, you and me, and yet you would abandon me for _them,”_ he said, eyes flickering between Shiroyama and Akira again, before shaking his head. “I refuse.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Shiroyama said, finally speaking up. “Matsumoto, step away from him.” Takanori hesitated, not entirely willing to let someone else deal with the problem — but he did as told, moving to Akira’s side and letting Shiroyama do the talking. “You know who I am, Ishida? You recognized me.”

“Of course I do,” Ishida replied, sounding unsure, continuing when Shiroyama nodded shortly, a gesture for him to keep talking. “You’re the policeman who was ah, uh, friends with Hirai…”

“And what else have you heard of me?”

Ishida looked away, not answering. They all knew what he was referring to, what Ishida was expected to say, but as for what Shiroyama was doing, Takanori didn’t know. “That you… worked with him,” Ishida replied eventually, “That you shared information… so he could continue making his art.” Shiroyama’s hand tightened at his side upon hearing that word; _art,_ what a sick fucking joke. Ishida took no notice of it. “I’ve heard… a lot. I’ve heard that Hirai fooled you the way he fooled me… and that you just never noticed, and I’ve heard that Hirai doesn’t exist and it was all you, or it was a conspiracy set up by the government for the police to make money, which was funny because before you came along, hardly anyone knew about it. I mean, Hirai didn’t make a lot from his art at all, before you!” He tried a laugh, seeming to find it amusing, but fell silent when he was met with a steely silence, Shiroyama’s expression still as grim as before. “And… you’re the reason it blew up,” Ishida finished quietly. 

Shiroyama smiled, but it was bitter and false. “Of course, as Hirai’s biggest fan you would know everything there is to know about me, especially the rumours,” he said. “So I’m sure you’re aware of how angry I am about the whole situation? I mean, my career was ruined. My life was ruined. Everyone knows me now, because I failed to bring Hirai to justice, and he let me take the fall for it. You know that, yeah?” Rather than answering, Ishida merely nodded. “And you’re angry at him too. Hirai played us both. He lied to us; you want him to suffer just as I do.”

Slowly, Ishida looked up, biting at his lips before he dared open his mouth to speak. “I know what you want, and I know where they are, but… this isn’t how I wanted it to go,” he admitted. “I want it to be just me and Matsumoto, like it used to be… just you, me, and blind boy.” He met Takanori’s eyes and tried a smile that quickly died at the venomous glare he got in response, because of course Takanori remembered Ishida’s initial proposal — the two of them alone with Kouyou, with _blind boy,_ to use and abuse him just as Ishida had wanted for so long. Was he still thinking that their so-called friendship could be salvaged? Did he really believe that Takanori would let himself fall so far, even now? 

“So what you’re saying is, you won’t take us there, unless it’s only Matsumoto?” Shiroyama said, interrupting Takanori’s darkening thoughts. Ishida nodded, his eyes steady for a moment longer than usual, something almost confident shining in him as if he believed he had won and would get his way after all. Shiroyama sighed, reaching into his jacket, and Takanori swallowed. “Then you haven’t given me any choice,” he said coolly, drawing out the gun and pointing it to Ishida’s paling face, “because if you refuse me my _right_ to give Hirai what’s coming to him, if I don’t get to do this, then nobody will, and you die here.” 

Ishida’s eyes were wide, fixated on the gun, the sudden threat that was aimed straight between his eyes, Shiroyama’s hand straight and unwavering. “You— you wouldn’t,” he stammered, glancing between Takanori and Akira for help, an escape, _something,_ but finding nothing; Takanori kept his face carefully blank, though his brain was on high alert, and he could tell Akira was doing the same. “You wouldn’t, you can’t,” Ishida said. “That would be— they will just use this against you! Anyone could hear a gun going off—”

Shiroyama smirked then, like he had been waiting for that. “Good thing I came prepared, then,” he said, dipping a hand into his pocket to pull out the silencer, screwing it on in a quick, practiced movement, and then the gun went up again, Ishida’s face as pallid as ever. “Now. Hirai. I’m not gonna ask again.”

 

Ishida was placed in the backseat of Shiroyama’s car, his hands cuffed and left to give directions while Takanori sat next to him, knife in his pocket and gun in his hand in case Ishida got creative and tried something funny. Not that it was likely. If anything, he looked like his spirit had been completely broken, his idol crushing his dreams and the vain hope that he and Takanori would be able to do this together torn to pieces. Ishida’s wants did not outweigh his basic survival instinct; Takanori suspected that if he hadn’t folded under the threat, Shiroyama would have shot him — a bullet to the leg, maybe, or the shoulder. And while a part of him was disappointed that Ishida hadn’t been made to suffer in that way, Takanori couldn’t deny he was… _scared_ was probably the right word. It seemed Shiroyama was much more vicious than he had initially thought.

Gripping the gun with both hands, he looked up in the rearview mirror, finding Shiroyama’s eyes trained on the road. Behind them, Akira was following close — he had refused to drive with them, opting instead for taking his own car, despite how old and run-down it was, especially compared to Shiroyama’s sleek ride. Takanori could understand it, though. The vibes that Shiroyama were giving off were frightening, and he’d rather not be trapped in a small space with the man for an extended period of time, but someone had to keep Ishida in his place. Just in case.

Ishida had gone quiet, only speaking up to confirm or deny if they were going the right way. Hirai’s hiding place was pretty far away, the address unfamiliar to all of them. According to Ishida, it was located in an old and remote area near the outskirts of the city; Ishida had taken refuge in a decrepit old house that had been scheduled for demolition several years prior, but never gone down. It even had running water and electricity, despite the state of the building itself.

It only served to make Takanori angry. Hirai had gone unpunished for so long, his every need taken care of — except for his need for attention, of course. Being in public would leave him in danger of getting caught, even though he must have mostly faded from the public’s memory by now. Ishida claimed he had never really left the house he occupied. Which meant, of course, that he had someone to run errands for him. Takanori frowned, grasping the gun a little tighter. It was probably Jiro. That guy had been working for Hirai for a long time, he suspected, all for the money… letting Kouyou torture himself, thinking Jiro would be the one to give him the revenge he craved, only to be betrayed.

The gun was so heavy. He let it fall to his lap, very much aware of Ishida warily watching him. By the way things were going, it didn’t seem like it would see any use tonight, at least not against Ishida; he had crumbled quickly under the threat of gun violence, even though Akira’s fists had left a deep impression in his face afterwards.

At least that was something, Takanori thought. He was sure to give Ishida his own round of kicks and punches once Kouyou was safe; the final blow would be his, if Kouyou wanted it. He would press the knife into Kouyou’s hands and point them towards Ishida’s pliant skin, ready to tear him open — and then… it would be Hirai’s turn. Whether Kouyou or Shiroyama would be the one to do it remained to be seen. The man was vengeful. Takanori wasn’t sure if he would even allow Kouyou to kill him, if he was willing to hand the gun over in the name of forgiveness — or if his true nature was finally revealing itself as angry, vicious, and selfish.

Either way, it would depend on what state they would find Kouyou in. He could have gone back to his old self, he could have become blind boy once more; trapped in the dark, obedient when he had to be, violent when the situation allowed it — or he could be fighting back, tooth and nail, only to be restrained so that he wouldn’t hurt neither Hirai nor himself. Or he could be… 

Takanori shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities any more than he absolutely had to, but he had nothing to go on but his own twisted imagination. Not even Ishida would be of any help there; he claimed Hirai had refused to let him see Kouyou at all, and he was just as clueless as the rest of them as to his condition, if he were even alive anymore—

“Don’t worry,” Ishida said quietly, cutting off Takanori’s dark thoughts. He clenched his hands, turning his wrists as much as the cuffs allowed. “Don’t worry,” he repeated, voice lowering presumably so that Shiroyama would not hear. “I know what you’re thinking, Matsumoto. You’re afraid. But blind boy was his masterpiece, there is no way he could have done anything to mar him.”

“Mar him?” Takanori repeated, voice merely a whisper for a second, before anger filled him. _“Mar_ him? What, you don’t think that everything Hirai has already done was enough to ruin him for good? That he hasn’t been hurt enough as it is?” He raised the gun again, finger twitching against the cool metal, aching to touch the trigger, pull it back right there and then, and Ishida shrank back, his hands open in surrender. 

“No, no,” Ishida pleaded, “that’s not what—”

“That’s not what you meant, huh? Well then shut the fuck up and keep your thoughts to yourself!”

From the driver’s seat, there was a sigh, and Takanori dropped the gun to his lap again. He looked outside, watched the lights fly past as they drove by, catching sight of people walking the streets, the city so alive despite the sun having set. Kouyou was somewhere, as dead to the world now as he had been years ago. 

Shiroyama cut in smoothly through the tense silence to demand directions, interrupting Takanori’s thoughts; he grumbled and turned away, leaning his head against the car door, staring with unfocused eyes out the window. “Turn left,” Ishida said, before dropping his voice and whispering, “I’m sorry, Matsumoto.”

Takanori ignored him. He kept quiet all the rest of the way, the drive long and silent as he stared out the window, letting his eyes be blinded by streetlights in the dark as the grey of the city faded to black as they moved away from the urban city. Takanori didn’t know where they were anymore, but eventually Ishida pointed them up a narrow road towards dark, deserted buildings. They parked there, on a patch of gravel by what looked like it once had been a small neighbourhood at the edge of Tokyo, small houses scattered about the hillside. They all looked dark and empty, long since fallen into disrepair. Even the tagging that covered some of the walls looked old and faded.

Shiroyama seemed to be inspecting the area, taking a look around before he finally killed the engine and got out. He had been driving for something like an hour, Takanori guessed, following suit. He shivered a bit once outside, unaccustomed to the cold after so long in the warm car, standing back as Akira parked nearby. He walked up to them, eyeing the gun for a second before moving to Takanori’s side. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure,” Takanori said, watching Shiroyama undo Ishida’s seatbelt before dragging him out of the car by the arm. “Anxious, I guess. This place is way further out than I thought it’d be.”

“The guy brought him here?”

Takanori nodded. “Seems like it.” Ishida was struggling to stay on his feet as Shiroyama pushed him along, but he made no protest. “It’s quiet here. No wonder he chose this place to hide…”

“I wonder if he knows we’re coming.” Akira looked nervous, too. “Maybe we should call for help? I mean, things could go south really quickly, and Shiroyama isn’t exactly the perfect cop, if you catch my drift.”

“What, are you getting doubts now?”

“I’m just saying…”

“Not happening,” Shiroyama said as he approached, a hand firmly on Ishida’s back. “We’re doing this alone. Nobody else is going to get involved, but if you want to sit it out, then feel free.”

Akira pressed his lips together. “Forget it.”

“No, but you have a point,” Takanori said. “Not that I’m going to, but…”

Shiroyama sighed, and he quieted. “You know why. You saw what happened after you let me take in Tanabe. Takashima will never forgive me if I let the same happen to Hirai,” he admitted, “and because I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t get to give him what he deserves.” He tightened his grip on Ishida, the soft tone in his voice disappearing. “Now, Ishida. Which one of these houses is it?”

Ishida’s voice was little more than a whimper as he complied, pointing out one of the buildings as best he could; it was a little further up the hill, and its location would probably have given Hirai a good view of anyone approaching. “He can’t see us,” Ishida promised them weakly. “The windows are all boarded up. It’s supposed to be abandoned, can’t let anyone see that the lights are still on…”

“You sound very familiar with the interior,” Akira said, making no effort to disguise the loathing in his voice.

“I’m not,” Ishida said; Takanori thought he saw the ghost of a smile for a brief second before it was gone. “Not really. But Hirai let me in… on many occasions, after I told him who I am…”

“So you know where we should go.”

“... yeah.” They were coming up to the house; it was dead silent all around them but for their footsteps and the faint sounds of traffic further down the road where they’d come from, and it left an uncomfortable pit deep in Takanori’s stomach; Hirai was there, perhaps only by meters from them, separated by locked doors. Kouyou was there, somewhere. Ishida cleared his throat. “You can’t go through the front. There’s a back door. A balcony. I always went through there.”

“Why, is the front door boarded up too?” Shiroyama asked, mouth set to a displeased frown. 

“Maybe. I know it’s locked, but I don’t know if it’s boarded shut,” Ishida said, making no protest as he was pushed forward, forced to walk again. “He told me… the other man came through the balcony, with food. Sometimes he left it in the yard. But never by the front door,” Ishida explained. They rounded the corner, a tall chain link fence separating them from the house’s backside and garden. Ishida raised his arms and pointed; there was a staircase leading up to a small balcony on the house’s second floor, the door a dark wood against peeling white paint. “One should never use the front door in a house where no one lives. He told me that the back door would always be open, unless he didn’t want visitors. And he always wants visitors. It gets lonely out here.”

“Lonely?” Akira chuckled bitterly. “He gets lonely? How tragic. I guess he should have thought about his _social needs_ before he decided to fuck everyone over, huh?”

“You would never—”

“Shut it,” Shiroyama growled, tightening his grip around Ishida’s bicep. “Both of you, shut up. If you’re gonna be talking, at least say something useful. You’ve been in there, so what does the interior look like? Where would Hirai be?”

“And where would he be keeping Kouyou? That’s kind of the reason we’re here in the first place,” Takanori added. 

“What I know isn’t that much, really…” Ishida hung his head. “The place where he keeps his art, his workspace… the atelier is the only place he let me see. It’s the first room, through the balcony. And downstairs, I think he lives there… anything else, I don’t know. He refused to let me know.” 

“So he didn’t stick Kouyou in his art gallery, then?”

“No. He never let me see blind boy. He has to keep him downstairs somewhere.”

“Fuck,” Takanori muttered, entwining his fingers in the fence; it was rusted, jagged and rough against his skin, so used to the smooth metal of the gun. “He’ll probably run when he hears us coming. One of us should stand by the front door, for when he tries to escape.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, in the car,” Ishida said, and Takanori swore he was almost smiling. “Hirai won’t give up his masterpiece. Not for anything, I can promise you that,” he said. “He will not run without blind boy, not again.”

“—stop _calling him that,”_ Akira snarled, and Takanori jumped back as Akira’s hand collided with Ishida’s cheek for the second time that evening, before grabbing for Ishida’s jacket. “He’s not your fucking _toy_. His name is Takashima Kouyou, and you will call him nothing else or I’m going to rip the gun from Takanori’s hands and beat you with it! Now, is there a gate of some kind to this fence, or did you have to climb it?” Ishida hissed in pain, but nodded sharply, drawing back when he was let go. “Then get over the fence, and do it quickly.”

“What are you doing, ‘kira?” Takanori whispered as Ishida slowly made his way over the fence; it was nearly as tall as he was, and he struggled to not fall, clumsily climbing with his bound hands. 

“What? If we’re going over anyway, he should go first. I refuse to give him any chance to escape,” Akira replied, not bothering to lower his voice. He glanced down at the gun, still clutched in Takanori’s hand. “Unless you wanted to kill him first.”

Takanori bit his lip. “I don’t know what I want,” he said after a short moment, keenly aware of the sudden tense set of Ishida’s posture, even as he jumped to the grassy ground. “Maybe Kouyou wants to do it.”

“No, I think you should do it, and do it quickly,” Akira said. He didn’t give Takanori a chance to reply, turning to scale the fence himself, ignoring the way Ishida drew towards the corner where fence met wall to put some distance between them. He wouldn’t want to stay close to the people who were openly discussing murdering him, of course, Takanori thought and sighed. Even after holding on to it for so long, the gun felt strange in his hands. 

He didn’t like it.

“I think you shouldn’t.” Shiroyama’s voice was oddly gentle, considering. “Not now, at least. Do you need help going over?”

“Shouldn’t someone guard the door? I’m the only one here who’s armed.”

“There’s no need. Ishida is right. Hirai is…” There was a grimace. “I knew him for years. Sure, he lied to me, but sometimes he was… genuine. I know what he’s like, and he grows attached to his work. There’s no way Hirai would leave Takashima behind, even if it meant he would have to let himself get captured.”

“But he already did before,” Takanori reminded him, but Shiroyama shook his head.

“He did so on purpose, back then. I know that for sure, I just don’t know why he did it,” he said. “Besides… you know, I think he’s expecting us. Or at least you.”

Takanori’s stare was blank. 

“I knew Hirai for two years, Matsumoto,” Shiroyama said with a weak smile. “If it taught me anything, it’s that everything Hirai does has a purpose. It’s just a matter of finding out what it is. Jiro told you something, didn’t he? The whole reason he contacted you in the first place was because Ishida ended up with _his_ job.”

“I don’t follow.”

A sigh. “Hirai told Ishida to go to you, knowing he’d want some kind of revenge for refusing him. And now, here you are,” he said, “at Hirai’s hiding place. He knows you’re coming, is what I’m saying. He wants you to come. He’s not about to leave now.”

Takanori frowned. Staring down at the gun, he was at a loss for what to do, head swimming with thoughts. Shiroyama could be right, though. The only reason Jiro had picked up, was because he was angry, because his money was cut. Hirai wanted something from him, though he probably wasn’t expecting Akira and Shiroyama to come along for the ride—

“Hey, are you gonna get over here or not?” Akira called out to him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

If things went well, they’d find out soon enough, Takanori decided and pushed Shiroyama aside, stuffing the gun in his mouth despite the protest as he began to climb the fence. It rattled as he went, rust biting his fingers and metal sharp between his teeth; he fell gracelessly to the ground, spitting at the grass to remove the taste of iron from his tongue as Shiroyama landed next to him moments later, having scaled the fence almost effortlessly.

He cleared his throat, glancing up at the door. It was almost foreboding now that they were so _close_. Part of him didn’t want to go. “Well,” he said, “no time to lose, right?”

“Right,” Akira agreed. “What were you two talking about?”

Shiroyama shrugged. “Gunplay, mostly. As I was saying, I should go in first. You’re all kids, and I am a trained officer of the law and all that.”

“Right. But then Takanori put your gun in his mouth.”

“It won’t be necessary to go in armed. Hirai doesn’t like weapons, he never has, so he isn’t likely to be using one now. I’m not too worried about it.”

“Yeah, except that he probably has Kouyou’s knife, and for all we know he could have one of his buddies around, so—”

To the side, there was the distinct noise of rusty metal being pushed aside, of footfalls on concrete, and Takanori started visibly as he turned to see Ishida slip through a tear in the fence where it had seemingly been ripped clean from the wall at some point. No, he thought, no, _no, fuck._ Sprinting towards it, he raised the gun, and his finger trembled on the trigger.

“—hey!”

“Ishida, you fuck, get back here!” Takanori nearly screamed, pushing against the fence, the rush of his heartbeat breaking his focus as he struggled to get through the hole where Ishida had escaped. He poked the suppressed muzzle through the chain link as Ishida fled, running away like the dogs of hell were nipping at his heels, his cuffed wrists the only thing stalling him. “I swear, if you don’t stop I’ll—”

A gunshot rang through the air, and Takanori dropped the gun, thrown back from shock and the recoil. Ishida cowered for a moment but didn’t stop, and he disappeared out of sight just as Shiroyama grabbed Takanori by the shoulders. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” he yelled, shaking Takanori furiously. “You can’t fire a gun in an open area! Anyone can hear!”

Takanori was shaking; he didn’t notice, hardly hearing anything Shiroyama was saying over the ringing in his ears. “He was—” he stammered slightly, eyes darting to the spot where Ishida had slipped right through their grasp, “he was right there— it was silenced—”

“You idiot, do you think a silenced gun is a _quiet_ one? You think—”

“Shiroyama!” Akira cut in, pulling him off. “Yuu, stop this! We don’t have time for this bullshit, let’s just go!”

“But—” he growled, letting go of Takanori, who leaned heavily against the fence. The gun was at his feet, and then it wasn’t, Shiroyama picking it up and putting it back into his jacket. “I didn’t bring extra ammo,” Shiroyama said, anger still weighing his words down though his voice was lowered. “Those bullets were meant for someone, Matsumoto. Do not ruin this for me.”

But Ishida was gone. He couldn’t have gotten very far, his bound wrists preventing him from being able to run properly, Takanori knew, and part of him wanted to dart after him. The knife was still in his pocket. He could do it. Chase the bastard down and drive the blade into his neck.

“Well, if Hirai didn’t know we were here before, he does now,” Akira said, patting Takanori’s back. “Come on, man. Kouyou needs us, we can’t let him down.”

Taking a deep breath, Takanori pulled himself together; his head was still ringing, but Akira was right. “Yeah,” he agreed, grabbing his arm to stop the trembling. He didn’t know that firing a gun could leave him feeling so terrified. “Yeah, let’s go.”


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, man.

“What do we do if he lied?” Takanori drawled as they climbed the steps up to the balcony. He was hesitant, hanging back behind Akira. It didn’t feel right to be there, he thought; something about the place felt wrong, enough to make his skin crawl and he didn’t know _why._

“If the door is locked, then we’ll just have to get in the old-fashioned way,” Shiroyama said, touching a hand to the aged wood of the door. “Wouldn’t exactly be hard. This house is falling apart, bet I could kick down the door in one try.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Takanori said, chewing on his lip. “The way Ishida ran… I just feel like… I don’t know, something isn’t right. It could be a trap. Maybe he was setting us up.”

Shiroyama didn’t look convinced, but Akira gave an affirming groan. “I kinda agree, this place is creeping me out. It could be Ishida was trying to lead us into a trap, but—”

“This is our only lead,” Shiroyama cut in, “and if there’s even a sliver of a chance that Hirai is here— and that he’s keeping Takashima here, then it’s worth going in. I have a strong feeling this is the place. Of course, if you two want to back off, I’m not gonna stop you,” he added as turned the door handle and pushing it open; Takanori held his breath, half expecting something to happen, for a bomb to go off like in a movie, but nothing. The door was unlocked, just as Ishida had claimed, and inside he could glimpse heavy drapes hanging down before them. Shiroyama caught Takanori and Akira’s eyes. “You’d better be ready. If something _does_ go wrong, I trust you’ll manage to get the hell out of here on your own. If Hirai is here, he’s not getting away from me. Not this time.”

Gathering his courage, Takanori stilled his doubts and reached down to pat the pocket of his pants, feeling the knife against his thigh, holding onto the feel of it like a lifeline. He was armed. He was not defenseless, should something go wrong, and slowly he followed Akira into the darkness of the house.

The floor creaked under their weight as they slipped inside. Pushing aside the floor-length curtains that hung before the doorway, they found themselves in a surprisingly large and well-lit room. The interior had been painted a stark white, walls lined with bookcases that were crammed full of books and folders, canvases leaning against one another on the floor in places. The single window was boarded shut, just as Ishida had said it would be, and an easel stood propped beside it, the large canvas that sat upon it covered in a white cloth.

“I guess Ishida was honest after all,” Akira said, his voice hushed but eyes angry as he looked about the room. It was true. They looked to be dead center in Hirai’s atelier, and Takanori crouched down as softly as he could manage to look at some of the many canvases; they were paintings, beautifully crafted from what he could tell, though none of them looked finished. Portraits, landscapes, still life paintings; each one with the same odd, wrong feeling about them, like they had started out with one style in mind and then turned into something abstract and incomprehensible halfway through before being abandoned, left to gather dust on the floor. None of the ones he saw portrayed Kouyou. 

Takanori supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to see that Hirai painted. If he really did consider himself an artist, he would find a creative way to pass the time. And filmmaking wasn’t exactly easy to pull off when you were alone and stuck in the same small house for years.

Shiroyama had removed his gun from its hiding place, wiping it down with the end of his jacket as he positioned himself by the door. Akira was throwing open the closet, coming face to face with mountains of various art supplies. Blank canvases, glossy papers, jars of ink, paints and pencils… and a couple large, expensive-looking cameras. He noted the heavy way Akira swallowed at the sight of them, like he was trying to force his rage down, and felt the taste of something like nausea in his own mouth. If Hirai really was somewhere in the house, he had a lot of pain coming his way.

But fuck, it was so _quiet._

Rising to his feet, Takanori pulled out the knife from his pocket, unsheathing it quickly and pretending he didn’t notice how hard his hands were shaking. The gunshot was still echoing in his head, his ears still ringing; Hirai must have heard it. There was no way he hadn’t, and the floorboards were complaining with every movement they made, so why, why couldn’t he _hear_ anything else? It was dead silent around them, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had to be a trap, that either Hirai wasn’t going to be there, or he had set up some lethal device that would do them in the second it was triggered — but he didn’t want to back out now. Shiroyama was right… they had to find Kouyou. 

Slowly, cautiously, they made their way into a hallway which was similarly decorated. Plain walls, stuffed bookshelves. The single door led to a bedroom, sparingly furnished and almost entirely empty. There were bookcases everywhere, each one as full as the last, and the staircase leading down seemed almost ominous in the bright lights of the hallway; Takanori could see the darkness waiting to swallow them up. “I don’t like this,” he whispered, grabbing hold of Akira’s jacket before they could reach the stairs. “It just shouldn’t be this easy. That we’ll just walk downstairs and find them, after all this.”

Akira shrugged him off but didn’t argue; he was thinking the same. “Yuu,” he said, and Shiroyama paused mid-step, giving a weary sigh. “Are you really sure we’ll be safe? You don’t think we could be walking into a trap of some kind?”

There was a dry chuckle, quiet but unbearably loud in the silent hallway. “Just keep your wits about you,” Shiroyama said, and Takanori tensed in alarm, because that really meant _no, I’m not sure._ Not even Shiroyama believed that it would go well — he seemingly just didn’t _care_ whether or not it did. “If anything goes wrong… look, if it really is a trap, then I want you to turn back and get out of here immediately.” He looked pointedly at Akira, who returned his stare. “That goes for the both of you.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Kouyou,” Akira retorted. Shiroyama gave a wry grin, probably expecting that answer, and started down the stairs. Takanori swallowed thickly as he stared down into the dim room there; he wasn’t going to flee. Kouyou needed them, and he had no plans of being a coward and run away at first sign of danger; tightening his grip on the knife, he found shelter in the now familiar handle, in the memory of Kouyou first giving it to him, back when things had finally started to become clear. He clung to the warmth in its polished wooden surface as they descended, to the memory of Kouyou’s eyes, wild with excitement or dark with lust, or soft and affectionate in those precious moments when they were wholly content with each other’s presences and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

He wondered if he would ever get to see that again.

The light switch in the first floor hallway didn’t work. Shiroyama heaved a breath to steel himself as he approached the door, gun at the ready, and Takanori did the same, watching every corner as if at any moment something could jump at them from the shadows. And jump he did, at the sudden resounding _thunk_ coming from just past the door; it was quiet, almost too quiet to hear, but it was the single loudest thing he had heard since stepping foot in the house, the only noise they hadn’t produced themselves, and Shiroyama stilled, giving them a moment’s warning to see if they were ready before pulling the door open. Light flooded their vision, and they found themselves standing in the doorway of a brightly lit kitchen.

_Thunk._

The man at the table wasn’t looking at them. His back was turned to them, as though he felt no need to pay them any attention, and his hands were fumbling with something that Takanori couldn’t see. “You’re finally here,” a voice called out. Shiroyama’s face was pulled into a mask of anger, a new fury blazing through his eyes, proof enough that he recognized the stranger before them; he did not lower the gun, his arm pointed straight ahead at the man in the chair who was idly lifting a long knife up from where its blade had been stuck in the table. Takanori’s breath hitched. There was Kouyou’s knife, the twin of his own, in the hands of the man they’d been hunting.

“I was wondering if you were ever coming downstairs,” the man said, voice carrying all the air of a saint, or an overly patient parental figure. He was smiling as he turned to look at them over his shoulder, and he looked… genuinely happy to see them; it brought a chill down Takanori’s spine. “Yuu, it’s so good to see you again.”

Shiroyama bristled, notably, and Takanori tried his best not to flinch; Shiroyama’s hand only tightened on the gun. “Put the knife on the table and get on your knees,” he said tightly, and the man’s smile faltered in something like disappointment, but he didn’t move. 

“Is this any way to treat a friend?” he said, and lifted the knife once more, eyes watching Shiroyama’s closely as he stabbed it back into the table. _Thunk._ Takanori was going to be sick. “Come on now. You know you don’t need to play good cop with me, Yuu. You’re not on the clock right now.”

Takanori was vaguely aware of the way Akira was pushing him back into the relative safety of the dark hallway. His posture was so drawn and tense he looked like he could snap at any moment. “You. Are you Hirai?” he demanded, and Takanori pretended not to hear the quiver in his voice, the way the man whose name was _Hirai_ smiled slightly at the sound of it.

“I am,” he said smoothly, “And I presume then, that you’re Suzuki.”

Shiroyama didn’t even have time to utter a warning before Akira, growling, pounced. Takanori’s breath stalled; halfway through the door he was too far away to grasp Akira before it was too late, and all he could see was that knife, Kouyou’s knife, glimmering so dangerously beneath the sharp light of the overhead lamp — he barely even noticed how Shiroyama yelled, closing the short distance between him and Hirai as Akira pulled back, gasping; Akira whose features had contorted into some mixture of confusion and fury as his hand pressed against the fresh wound on his stomach, bright red seeping between his fingers. 

“Shit, what the fuck, what the fuck…”

The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and Akira was glancing between it and his own hands like he didn’t know what to do. He was hissing curses through clenched teeth, and Shiroyama was yelling something, but Takanori couldn’t see anything past the blood on Akira’s hands, the long, narrow cut down the front of his jacket where Hirai had lunged at him.

“You fucking idiot— he was _armed,_ why the fuck did you run straight at him—” Takanori’s words were coming out quick and jumbled, hands almost desperately pressing Akira’s torn jacket close against the cut to stall the bleeding, the struggle behind him reduced to background noise. He didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, Hirai wasn’t supposed to have Kouyou’s knife, Akira wasn’t supposed to be so fucking _stupid_ , and his breath shouldn’t be coming out like it was, uneven and shaky as if he didn’t quite remember how to breathe properly. “Shiroyama, you piece of shit, you said this wouldn’t happen!” Takanori snapped, looking over his shoulder just in time to see Shiroyama bash Hirai’s head against the table, the man falling still, limply spread out with his face pressed against splintered and stabbed wood. Next to him, Akira snapped to attention, as though the violence had pulled him out of his daze.

“It wasn’t supposed to,” Shiroyama muttered, pulling at Hirai’s arms to secure his hands behind his back, realising belatedly that he had nothing to restrain him with. “Shit, it really wasn’t.” He glanced up, looking between Takanori and Akira, at their bloody hands. “Is he—”

“I’m fine,” Akira was saying in an odd, floaty sort of voice, and he was pushing Takanori’s hands away. “I’m— I’m fine. Really.” 

“Like fuck you are, he fucking cut you, ‘kira—”

“It’s _fine,”_ Akira repeated, more insistently this time, forcing a half-smile that came out a wrangled grimace. “I’m gonna kill him for ruining my jacket, though. I mean, once Kouyou is done with him.”

Takanori exhaled slowly, pulling gently at Akira’s clothes despite the protest; the cut looked much worse than it really was. His jacket and shirt had taken the brunt of the damage, sliced almost cleanly through the cloth, and as a result the cut was shallow, bleeding already starting to slow. Behind him, there was a strangled laugh.

“You flew at me,” Hirai said defensively, grunting in pain when Shiroyama pulled at his shoulders with more force. “What did you think would happen? That I _wouldn’t_ defend myself against—” 

The gun pressed against his temple, and Hirai wisely decided to shut up. “Don’t,” Shiroyama hissed, “I want to make this last, after all the misery you caused me.”

Hirai didn’t argue with that, simply falling still against the table again. His eyes were dark, half-lidded and watching Takanori closely; Takanori could feel that gaze on him, and his skin crawled under it. He wanted to approach them, force Hirai to tell them everything they came for, but something about the way Hirai was _looking_ at him completely stopped him in his tracks. There was something there, in Hirai’s eyes, something he didn’t like, and he was only freed from it when Akira leaned down to pluck the knife from the floor, one arm still curled around his middle.

“You cut me,” Akira said. It was not a question, but Hirai nodded anyway, as much as the gun would allow him to. “You… you ruined my best friend’s life. You almost killed him. You took his dreams from him, and mine, and you ruined Yuu, you’ve even messed Takanori up and now you— and now you _cut_ me.” He licked his lip, eyes trailing down to Kouyou’s knife, clutched in his hand. “Do you know how much that makes me want to cut you, huh?”

“I suspect,” Hirai drawled, “ _a lot_ is the answer.”

“Yeah, I do. And I don’t want to stop there. I want to… tear you up, Hirai. I want to cut out your eyes and blind you, and I want to rip your clothes off, and stab you in the dick, because that’s what you fucking deserve after everything you did,” Akira said; his grip on the knife tightened, and ignoring Shiroyama’s tense warning he drove the blade into the table, the motion barely restrained in his anger. _Thunk._ “But I’m not going to do any of that. I’m not going to stab you, Hirai, much as I want to. Not yet. Are you wearing a belt?”

Hirai was holding his breath, and he nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the sharp knife edge only inches from his face. “I— I am,” he said, “but why does that matter?”

“Get it off him,” Akira said, and it took Takanori a long moment to realize the order was directed at him. When he didn’t comply and Shiroyama raised a brow, Akira added, “We need something to tie him up with.”

Right. They’d wasted the cuffs earlier. And with Shiroyama occupied holding Hirai down, and Akira injured, the job naturally fell on him, unpleasant as it was.

The blood on his hands was still wet, fingers slipping slightly on the leather of the belt, and once it was freed from its loops Hirai’s pants began to slip down lower on his hips, threatening to fall down entirely — which they did, when Shiroyama pulled Hirai to stand against the wall. “This is so indecent,” Hirai was saying between grunts of pain as the belt was tied tighter and his arms forced unnaturally far back. “But you must understand, that it’s hard to keep in shape when you can’t leave the house, or—” another groan, and he was pushed down to sit on the floor, pants bunching up around his knees. “And when you keep being brought the same dull foods, day after day.”

“Yeah,” Akira said, “I can’t even _imagine_ what that’s like.”

Hirai stilled, if only for a heartbeat. “Oh,” he uttered, almost laughing, and bowed his head. “You would know something about that.”

Akira said nothing, but there was a deep-set fury in his eyes, and in a quick stride he closed the distance between them, hand raised to deliver a potent blow to Hirai’s face, hard enough to make the cracking noise resound against the walls; Hirai crumpled further into himself, his coughs spraying little droplets of blood to the floor. “Kouyou,” Akira said, bruised hand curling into Hirai’s short hair, “where is he?”

In response, Hirai closed his eyes, lips pulled into a half-smile even as blood flecked his teeth and lips, and gave a nod towards the kitchen; there was a small hallway there. “He’s been waiting,” Hirai slurred slightly, words struggling to form properly with the pain, “but I can’t tell you what he’s waiting for.”

That was all Akira needed; dropping Hirai carelessly against the wall, he got to his feet and rushed in the direction Hirai had pointed him, Takanori following close.

“Tell me,” Hirai said from behind them, “Ishida. Did you gun him down? I heard someone shoot, he was supposed to be here. Should I be in mourning?”

“What does it matter to you?” he heard Shiroyama say. “You were just using him.”

“So he’s gone, then.” 

“You shouldn’t care. I _know_ you don’t care, not for some punk like him, someone you played with and lied to for months for your own gain.” Their voices were growing hushed, words no longer meant for anyone but themselves; whatever Hirai’s response was, Takanori couldn’t hear it. And whatever Shiroyama would do… he didn’t want to know. 

Akira was already throwing doors open, though the wound on his stomach was slowing him down. A worrying smudge of blood had been left on the door handle, but Takanori kept his mouth shut, looking into an empty bathroom — his eyes were immediately drawn to the sink, to the stark black that stained white porcelain. Like someone had poured a bottle of ink down the drain. Nowhere looked large enough to hide a person. Takanori moved on. Another door, another room, and he tried to ignore the sound of Shiroyama’s enraged voice from the kitchen, the sudden gunshot that exploded in his eardrums and echoed through his head for the second time that night making him freeze in his tracks, a pained scream following it. Shiroyama was shouting, words indistinguishable against Hirai’s wailing and the droning echo in his head, sounding monstrous against his own racing heartbeat. Ears ringing, Takanori drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.

He’d expected darkness. Instead, he was almost blinded by the light of the overhead lamp, so much so that he closed his eyes momentarily, wanting to turn away, but he couldn’t. He squinted against the light as his eyes adjusted, a hand groping the wall for the light switch but finding none, unable to tear his gaze away from the bright, huddled figure in the corner of an otherwise empty room, because fuck, there he was. _Oh fuck, Kouyou._

“Kou,” Takanori breathed. “Akira, I— I found him,” Takanori called out, voice barely audible in his own ears, and he fell to his knees before his friend, unable to keep from shaking slightly at the sight of Kouyou, curled up and dressed all in white with a blindfold tied over his eyes. “Kouyou, it’s me,” he tried, reaching out to touch a bare shoulder as gently as he could manage. “It’s me. Akira’s here too, and Shiroyama, we came to get you out of here…”

Nothing. Kouyou wasn’t reacting, remaining eerily still where he sat, giving no signal that he even registered anything happening around him. Hesitantly Takanori drew back, unsure of what to do. It was only then he noticed a stark difference in Kouyou — his hair, usually a deep golden hue, was black. Just like it had been in the videos. His mind snapped back to the bathroom in the next room, the stained sink, and he felt something deeply unpleasant settle in his gut at the realization; Hirai had taken Kouyou here, dyed his hair, and blindfolded him, before letting him sit in an empty room to wait for Takanori’s arrival, as if blind boy was some sort of fucked up gift. Here he is, it seemed to say; here’s what you coveted for months on end; here’s the friend you used and lied to while pretending you loved him; here’s what I turned him into. A broken toy, unable and unwilling to escape.

And yet… Kouyou was different somehow, like this. He didn’t look like himself, but he didn’t look quite like blind boy either; if anything, it was like seeing two people at the same time, the persona that Hirai had created merging with the Kouyou he thought he knew until the lines between them blurred and Takanori could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. And it occurred to him then, that this was it; this was the Kouyou he’d always wanted to see. Finally, Takanori had the truth right in front of him, and it made him feel sick down to his bones.

Takanori pulled back, hands curling on the cold floor. He couldn’t do this. The only thing he ever did was make everything worse. “Fuck, Kouyou, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We’ll get you out of here, okay, just… please…” Turning to look over his shoulder, he found Akira standing in the doorway. “Akira,” he said, but Akira didn’t move; he just stared, arm curled around his waist in a death grip and expression frozen in what Takanori could only interpret as terror. He didn’t draw closer, didn’t approach; if anything, he looked lost as to what to do in the situation. Lost, and frightened.

Oh, Takanori realized belatedly, because Akira _was_ scared. He had always been terrified that he would trigger something, that he would see Kouyou revert back into what he’d been in the hospital, and now that it had seemingly happened he didn’t know what to do, or he didn’t want to risk making it worse — silently, Akira turned his eyes down, and walked away. Takanori felt a pang of something shoot through him, something that he wasn’t sure exactly what was; anger, worry, fear. He could hear Shiroyama’s shouts from the other room, but he was only dimly aware of the noise, and looking back at Kouyou he noticed that the blindfold wasn’t a true blindfold at all; it was just a strip of lace, wrapped around his head, and behind them Kouyou’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and staring straight ahead. Right at him.

Unsure, Takanori lifted his hands, pausing halfway. Fuck, that meant he was alone in this. What would Akira have done, if he hadn’t seemingly given up? What _should_ he have done? Been gentle, and considerate, and patient… right. “Kou,” he tried, “I’m— I’m going to take the blindfold off.” 

No response, but he knew better than to expect any different. Carefully he pulled at the knot at the back of Kouyou’s head, pulling it off, quickly finding that Hirai had tied it into a neat little bow that was easily undone. Like a beautifully wrapped present. Takanori swallowed. Now was not the time, not with the way Kouyou’s dark eyes were staring vacantly ahead; he had to think. Find some way to snap him out of it. He had to… looking around, he finally located the light switch. “I need to…” biting his lip, he trailed off. 

Was there any reason to explain what he was doing? Kouyou seemed too trapped in his own mind to even notice what was happening around him anyway, but wasn’t that just it? He was trapped. Takanori was the only one around to coax him out, even if he had no idea how. Clearing his throat, Takanori stood up. “I’m turning off the lights, Kou,” he said softly, “so you can feel better.” 

The room was flooded in darkness as he flipped the switch, only illuminated by the faint light coming from the open doorway; the white of Kouyou’s clothes made him a bright spot in the dark. It was hard to tell if there was any difference, but Kouyou seemed to still be staring ahead, now towards the hallway, his eyes drawn to the very thing that caused him to freeze up. Takanori had no real options. Complete darkness would only worsen Kouyou’s condition, and he needed to see if he was to do anything to help… letting out a slow breath, Takanori sat down on the floor in front of Kouyou, blocking his view of the doorway.

“Kou,” he said in a small voice, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to… it shouldn’t be me who comforts you, after what you’ve just gone through, whatever Hirai did. Not after all I did to you. I don’t know if I even can, but…” Lifting a hand, he gently ran it through Kouyou’s hair, the only thing he knew to do. It didn’t feel the same as it used to; the black dye seemed to stick to his fingers, as if ink stained his skin the same way it covered the sink, but it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. “We need you, Kou. Akira is so… I don’t know. He was supposed to be stronger, but he isn’t, not without you. And Shiroyama is different. Angrier, like he has no control over it, and… and I just…” Hesitating, Takanori closed his eyes, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Kouyou’s. “Just come back to me, baby. Come back to me.”

He could still hear the sounds of Shiroyama’s anger coming from the kitchen, Hirai sounding faint and far away, but he didn’t care about them, nor did he care about the way Akira had just walked away. They didn’t matter, and as far as Takanori was concerned, they had all ceased to exist, if only for a moment. It was only the two of them, the tension in Kouyou’s body slowly ebbing out as he finally relaxed in Takanori’s arms, the black strands of soft hair tangling between his fingers. There was a hitch in his breath as something warm pressed against his chest; Kouyou’s eyes had slid shut, a hand raised to push Takanori away, but there was no strength behind it.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, barely audible at all. “Takanori,” Kouyou murmured, “Taka, I…”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Takanori said quietly, pulling away but not letting go, feeling Kouyou lean into his touch. “I’m here, Kou.”

“I need to…” His eyes were half-lidded, falling shut as if he struggled to keep them open. “I need to… Yuu. I need to talk to Yuu…”

“What?” Takanori uttered, unable to hide his surprise. Wanting to see Akira he’d understand, it was what he’d expected, but Shiroyama? “Why?” he asked when Kouyou fell quiet, hating himself for the way Kouyou seemed to flinch at the question, pulling away as if he wanted to withdraw back into himself again. “No, don’t— don’t worry, I’ll get him, I’m just… surprised,” he hurried to say, stroking Kouyou’s cheek gently, hoping to ground him, to keep Kouyou in the present and not receding back into his mind. “I’ll… be right back, okay?”

“No,” Kouyou croaked as Takanori moved to stand, “Alone. I need to talk to him alone.”

The words made him pause, but he didn’t ask any questions. “Alright,” was all he said before leaving the room, sliding the door halfway shut and following the noise back towards the kitchen. He could hear Hirai’s whimpers long before he saw him, half-lying on the floor with his pants around his ankles and hands tied behind his back, a small puddle of blood forming by his feet and staining his pant leg. He’d heard the noise, but hearing it happen and seeing it with his own eyes were distinctly different, and Takanori glanced between them in disbelief, unable to help his shocked stare because he’d actually— “Shiroyama, what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Shiroyama didn’t move or even look at him, remaining where he sat in Hirai’s dining chair, staring down at the man by his feet. “I’m interrogating the suspect, Matsumoto, please don’t interrupt.”

“You can’t just— shoot him—”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

He bit back something vile, gritting his teeth. What was that about wanting redemption again? “Look, just… what did you do? _Why?”_

“I shot him,” Shiroyama said simply, “in the leg. He can’t escape now, even if he had the chance. He won’t die from it. Not that I’d let him, isn’t that right, Hirai?” He leaned forward in his seat, Hirai looking up from where he lay, letting out a slow, pained wheeze that sounded like the beginning of a laugh. “We have so much to catch up on still.”

“Disappointing,” Hirai breathed. Shiroyama straightened himself up, finally looking over at Takanori. The gun was in his lap.

“What did you want? Suzuki went to patch himself up, he’s in the bathroom if you’re looking for him. He could probably use the help. There was a first aid kit in the—”

“No, I came for you,” Takanori interrupted, ignoring the frown that earned him. “It’s Kouyou. I found him. He… he’s asking for you.”

Silence. With a slow, deliberate motion, Shiroyama placed the gun on the table. “Are you sure you heard him right?”

“Dead certain.”

Takanori held his breath for a moment. Shiroyama had been so sure of himself, so focused on the task at hand just a second ago, but now he suddenly looked nervous, doubtful. It was worrying. But then again… glancing down at Hirai, he found the source of the bloodstain, a gaping wound in his shin, and fought the nausea that was trying to push its way up. “Well,” Shiroyama finally said, standing up. “I better go find out what he wants then, huh?”

Picking the gun back up, he fiddled with it for a second before pressing it into Takanori’s hands, lowering his voice. “Watch him. Don’t try to fire at him, no matter what he says. Hell, don’t even let him talk. You’re not gonna be stupid about it after that episode outside, right? I’m counting on you.”

Takanori frowned but didn’t argue. “Right.”

Giving Hirai a warning look Shiroyama left, heading the way he had come and leaving Takanori alone with the man bleeding on the floor, with nothing but a gun in his hand and a knife in his pocket. 

Kouyou’s knife was gone from the table, the many marks left in the wood the only thing remaining. Sitting down in the chair, Takanori stared at the splinters; he didn’t want to look over at Hirai, but it was hard not to. That man was a monster, or so he’d been told. By Kouyou himself, by Akira, by Shiroyama. Not to mention Ishida, he thought, feeling a stab of anger and regret. But now, after everything Takanori had learned… everything he knew Hirai had done, all the suffering, and then to see him like that, tied up and whimpering on the floor with a bullet wound that was slowly oozing blood, it was so— well, underwhelming. 

He didn’t know what had gone down while he was looking for Kouyou, but it wasn’t hard to guess. There was an array of fresh bruises starting to settle on Hirai’s exposed skin, one of many beatings that were to come, he was sure. And yet… Takanori found himself almost pitying the man, despite knowing who he was. Maybe it just hadn’t sunk in yet, that this really was Hirai, the one who had taken Kouyou apart and molded him into something broken.

But fuck, Hirai just looked like a stranger. There was nothing particularly evil about him. He looked about Shiroyama’s age, maybe a bit older, pale and out of shape from having been cooped up for so long but otherwise unremarkable in every way, and the smile lines worn into his face were strange alongside his pained grimace. Takanori didn’t know how he was supposed to feel, but he wanted to ask why; why Hirai would even do what he’d done, what the whole point of it all was—

“So he spoke to you, did he,” Hirai said, breaking the awkward silence. Propping himself up as best he could on the floor, he cleared his throat before continuing. “He didn’t talk to me. Not a word. Nothing.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Takanori said; it earned him a wry, pained laugh, and he grasped the gun, raising it in threat, finger as far from the trigger as it could be. “No, don’t you even dare. I don’t know what your game is, but whatever you want, it’s— but you’re not gonna win.”

“There is no game. I wanted to talk to you. For a long time… this was the only thing I looked forward to, but I suppose I should have expected…”

“Shut the _fuck up,”_ he repeated, cutting Hirai off. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to try to appeal to me, you piece of— I know who you are! I know what you’ve done, and now you’re trying to pull me down too? It’s not gonna happen.”

“No, you’re wrong. I have never had any intention to hurt you. Any of you.”

“And then you stabbed Akira,” Takanori hissed. “You pulled the knife on him,” _Kouyou’s knife_ , he wanted to add, “and now you sit here and tell me you didn’t mean to? That it was an accident? What, was everything you did to Shiroyama, to— was all that just an accident, too?”

Hirai’s pained smile died on his face, and he pushed himself up to sit again. “No, I know what I did. But your friend, Suzuki, I didn’t mean to injure him. It just happened. Self defense, especially when you have a weapon, everything just turns so… barbaric. There’s no control. Suzuki forced my hand, so I slashed at him involuntarily.”

“Why are you trying to excuse yourself to me?” Takanori asked, anger seeping into his voice. “If you dislike weapons, why did you even have the knife, huh?” He stood up, unable to sit still any longer, raising the gun again. “You hate violence? I could hurt you right now. Hell, I could kill you, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me, Hirai. And get this, I really _want to_. You have no idea how much I want to shoot you, and there’s nothing you can do about it if I do.”

“I know,” Hirai said, sounding resigned. “I won’t even mind if you do it, Matsumoto. I won’t be surprised. Just… disappointed.”

Slowly Takanori lowered the gun. Biting down a snarl, he went back to the chair, pulling it out with a loud creak and sitting down. Disappointed, huh? That seemed to sum up how he was feeling himself. Not just with Hirai, but with everything, and everyone. Picking on the splintered wood of the table, he settled to ignore Hirai completely again, faintly wondering where Kouyou’s knife had gone, and if Akira really needed help to patch himself up, and what Kouyou wanted to talk to Shiroyama about.

It seemed to be taking its time, if nothing else. 

“I haven’t been able to make anything, you know.”

“I don’t care,” Takanori responded lifelessly, refusing to so much as look Hirai’s way. 

“You’re an artist, Matsumoto. You must know what it’s like, to feel empty through and through. Unable to work, unable to create, stuck in a rut of nothing. Day in and day out spent waiting for it to come back.”

“I don’t _care,”_ Takanori repeated, louder this time. “I don’t want you to say anything, so just— don’t.”

Hirai paused, as if he wanted to do as Takanori told him to, but he didn’t. “I wanted you to come. I hoped you could bring the boy out of his head. Jiro said he was getting better after meeting you, that maybe he would finally be ready, but it failed.” Takanori felt his blood run cold, something furious coiling in the depths of his gut. “You made a mistake to let him come here alone.”

Like Takanori didn’t know that already.

It was too much. Getting to his feet, Takanori grabbed the gun and left, unable to stay in Hirai’s presence any longer. The man was insistent on talking to him, and he didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to know what Hirai wanted from him, what sort of connection he apparently thought they had. There was nothing. They were not the same.

Hirai was a monster. He put Kouyou through hell, and then got him back just to do it again; Hirai hurt people knowingly, but seemed to think it a necessary evil. As for himself… Takanori closed his eyes, leaning against the wall of the hallway, and exhaled shakily. Takanori knew what he was, what he’d done. But he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like Ishida, he wasn’t like Hirai, and he never would be. Not while he had a conscience.

“What are you doing?” he heard Shiroyama say, “Didn’t I tell you to—”

“I know,” Takanori said, “I know. But I needed to get away.” Cracking his eyes open, he found Shiroyama in the doorway to the dark room, looking… different, somehow. He couldn’t place why. “What did he tell you?” 

“…go help out Suzuki, will you? We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?”

Shiroyama nodded. “Yeah. Get ready for another car trip, because Takashima says we need to… we need to do this somewhere else. No rush, though.” Holding out a hand, he gestured for the gun, and Takanori handed it over. 

“What are you gonna do?” Takanori asked, before Shiroyama could go. “To Hirai, I mean.”

“Oh, he’s coming with us.”

With that he left Takanori in the hallway with an open door that led straight to Kouyou. He was still sitting on the floor, now with his head buried in his knees, like a scared child trying to hide from the world. “Kou,” Takanori called out, relieved to see Kouyou aware of his surroundings, tensing up at the sound of his name. “Kouyou, are you…”

Kouyou didn’t move any further, but he did answer this time. “Go get Akira,” he murmured, voice coming out muffled. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, Shiroyama said that much, but why? Where are we going?”

“I can’t stay any longer,” Kouyou said. He blinked blearily against the light, uncurling from his position on the floor, expression pained as he tried to get to his feet. “I need to get out of here.” 

While it didn’t exactly answer his questions, Takanori wasn’t about to argue. Extending a hand, he helped pull Kouyou up. “Are you okay?” Takanori asked carefully, seeing the awkward way Kouyou was standing, like he was struggling just to keep himself upright. Kouyou didn’t answer, only shook his head before making a shaky step forward. He made no move to protest when Takanori slid a supporting arm around him.

They walked slowly, carefully; it was hard to ignore the stilted way Kouyou walked, even with the added support, and Takanori hated himself even further noting the slight limp in his step. “Taka,” Kouyou said quietly, “why do you have blood on your hands?”

Takanori paused. With everything happening, he’d pretty much forgotten about it. “Akira,” he said, but Kouyou didn’t understand, and he suppressed an annoyed groan. So Shiroyama had neglected to tell him.

“Akira got hurt,” he explained, but for a second he wasn’t sure if Kouyou had even heard. He looked completely blank for a moment, lips parting and closing like he wanted to say something but decided against it. “It’s not serious,” Takanori reassured, “but we all freaked out a little. Hirai had your knife, and then Akira ran at him.”

“Is he…”

“He swears he’s fine.”

It took Kouyou a bit before he remembered to breathe. “I need to see it,” he said, and the look in his eyes was strange and far away; wordlessly, Takanori complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, next chapter is probably gonna be the last. how about that?


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so I know I said this was going to be the final chapter, but because it is taking way too long, it's been split in two. next part won't take another two months, I swear.

Takanori wanted to know what had happened, he really did. Curiosity and concern were fighting each other the entire way, but he didn’t dare say a goddamn word. How could he, when Kouyou was like this? It had been days since Takanori last saw him, and he didn’t know what Kouyou had gone through in that time, beyond the obvious, and what he could guess. Being changed to look like his old self, stuck into a small room and set to wait… after whatever Hirai had initially planned, failed — but there he was, demanding to see Akira because he had to know if his friend was alright, despite how he was barely holding himself together.

Pushing the door to the bathroom open, Takanori braced himself, Kouyou raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light inside. The white tiles, the stained sink, a first aid kit spread out across the floor next to a bunched up and tattered jacket; there was Akira, shirt pushed aside so he could try to fix his wound, frozen at the sight of them.

“Shima,” Akira said, the name falling from his lips, but Kouyou’s attention was drawn to the open gash, the mess that was Akira’s chest, his bloody hands; Akira quickly dropped what he was doing to pull the torn shirt closed, covering his injury from view. Not that it made much difference, when Kouyou had already seen.

Slowly, Kouyou pulled himself away from Takanori’s arms, wavering slightly on his own but refusing to accept the steadying hand to his shoulder. “He hurt you,” he stated, and Akira shook his head. 

“No, no, he nicked me. It’s not as bad as it looks, okay? I’m alright.”

Kouyou held his gaze for a long moment, before taking a shaky breath like he had forgotten to breathe. “Then let me see it,” he said. It wasn’t a demand — his voice was too small and scared to carry any semblance of authority, but Akira relented anyway as Kouyou stepped forward to pull his hands from the gash on his chest. Very, very gently Kouyou touched a hand to the wound, blood having been sloppily wiped away before they came in. He had fallen completely quiet, glancing between his friend’s injury to his own bloodstained fingertips, blinking harshly before looking away.

He withdrew. “Sit down,” he said, crouching down to the floor for the medkit. “And take your shirt off.”

Akira obeyed. Shrugging the ruined clothing off, he placed it in his lap, looking weirdly self-conscious where he sat on the edge of the tub, waiting while Kouyou got to work, gathering what he needed to clean the wound properly. Watching them, Takanori found himself starkly out of place in the whole situation, which Akira must have noticed, because he smiled weakly as he caught Takanori’s stare. “You don’t need to stand all the way over there, you know.”

“Come make yourself useful, Taka,” Kouyou mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards the cabinet by the sink. “I need to wash this off.” 

Nodding, Takanori got to work, opening the cabinet to reveal neatly folded towels and cloths, along with various other bathroom necessities. Grabbing a piece of cloth he glanced over to Kouyou, finding a strange silence had descended over them, and Takanori did not want to be the one to break it. 

Fortunately he didn’t need to. “I didn’t know what to do,” Akira murmured, “when I heard you were gone, that he got you again, I just—” He cut himself off to hiss in pain as Kouyou cleaned the wound. “Fuck, and I thought it was gonna be too late this time.”

“Hirai would never kill me, if that’s what you think. He’s too proud, or too fond of me for that.” Kouyou was blinking constantly, eyes struggling to stay open under the harsh bathroom lights as he worked. “But that he’d do this to you, when he knows who you are, what you mean to me. That he would hurt you, Aki, I just can’t…” Tossing the filthy cotton ball to the floor, he grabbed the wet cloth Takanori offered to wash away the rest of the blood before he reached for the bandages. Akira jumped slightly at the contact; the water had been a little cold.

With no instructions on what to do, Takanori settled for staring at the sink again. He tried to imagine Kouyou there, obediently sitting still as Hirai massaged the dye into his hair, turning it black. It looked odd on him, unfamiliar somehow, despite the fact that it had been his look in nearly every video he had seen. This was different. In all that footage, it had always been blind boy. This was Kouyou, and yet it wasn’t, this was someone in-between the two personas Takanori had become all too familiar with, and in the end, it just made him feel like a stranger.

“Why did this happen, Aki?”

Akira shrugged. “I was angry. When I saw him, and it really _was_ him, I just… after everything he did to us, to you. I wanted to kill him right there and then.” He chuckled slightly, raising his arms as instructed so Kouyou could wrap his chest. “Stupid thing to do.”

“Taka said he had a knife.” 

“Yeah.”

“That was my knife,” Kouyou whispered. “It was mine. I got it because I was going to kill him, and then I couldn’t. He took it. Now he’s used it for… this.”

At that, Akira fell silent. What could he say? Takanori didn’t know, keeping dead still where he stood, unwilling to move and bring attention to himself, even as Kouyou finished wrapping the bandages and fixing them with surprising ease. Standing there in Hirai’s brightly lit bathroom, the very house itself seemed to be mocking them, Takanori thought. Its dark hallways, the abandoned paintings scattered about in nearly every room, the stains in the sink. Long stray hairs clogging up the drain.

Akira swallowed thickly. “It was my fault, okay?” he said, grasping for Kouyou’s hand. “Not yours. I was just stupid, and angry. You know how I get when I’m angry, Kou, I stop thinking completely and my self-preservation instincts go out the window. You know that. It wasn’t your fault.”

It took a long time before Kouyou answered, gaze fixed on their joined hands, and he sighed. “But I had him,” he said, pressing a finger gently to Akira’s throat, “right there. I had him, and I couldn’t do it.”

Takanori could see the way he withdrew back into himself, the shame and guilt reflecting back at him. _Disappointing,_ Hirai’s voice echoed in his head. Some sort of realization was gnawing at him, but as to just what it was, Takanori didn’t know. Was this what Hirai had been referring to, failing to kill him? “Look, we’re gonna make it this time, okay?” Akira said. “He’s never going to hurt you again. You won’t be alone, and I could do it for you. I’d be happy to, Shima. Trust me.”

“You’d be killing a man. I can’t ask that of you.”

“I won’t care. If it means keeping you safe, anything is worth it.” 

At a loss of what to say in response, Kouyou nodded — but really, he just looked sad. “Get dressed,” he said, “We’ve kept Yuu waiting long enough.”

He didn’t so much as look at the smudged bloodstain on the floor as they passed it. There was no sign of Shiroyama still being around; he must have left, and taken Hirai with him. Takanori hadn’t heard any sound of struggle, so he wasn’t worried, but the heavy silence in the house did fill him with a dread that he wasn’t sure he could deal with if it hadn’t been for Kouyou’s weight at his side, and Akira was trailing behind them, watching closely every time there was a hitch Kouyou’s step.

He was almost relieved when Akira asked the question Takanori hadn’t dared to voice. “Shima,” Akira said, “why are you limping?”

For a second there was a tense, heavy quiet. Then Kouyou said, “Hirai wasn’t happy.”

“Did he…”

“He dropped me off in a room and told me to stay still,” Kouyou said. “So I did. I stayed still the entire time, while he fixed me up, and then when he left, I was sitting there, waiting for him to come back.” He pulled at his shirt; the fabric nearly matched the white skin of his chest. “I don’t know how much time passed. But I couldn’t feel my legs after a while.”

“It’s been two days since you left,” Takanori murmured.

Kouyou sniffled. “Have you seen my things?”

There was a slight silence, Takanori glancing down to Kouyou’s feet, clad only in a pair of white socks. Oh. “No…”

“He took my stuff. My boots and jacket, and my… and the knife,” he added, Akira shifting his weight awkwardly where he stood; if there was something on his mind, he didn’t comment. But at least Shiroyama didn’t have to wait for them too much longer. They found the boots by the entrance, placed neatly on a shoe rack right between Hirai’s shoes, though the jacket was nowhere to be found. The knife had seemingly disappeared into thin air, but Kouyou didn’t seem too keen on finding it. “It doesn’t matter,” he said when Takanori tried to bring it up, his eyes wide and staring through the open front door, ignoring the smeared trail of Hirai’s blood in favor of the bright lights from the city. “We should get going.”

It was probably for the better that they left the house as it was, and that Takanori never saw just what was hidden away in Hirai’s atelier; with Kouyou by his side and the cold winter air rushing through his lungs, his mind was too focused and too scattered all at once to even remember what was up there. The unfinished, vandalized artwork, bookshelves stuffed to bursting — and the painting he would never get to see where it sat upon the easel, a delicate recreation of Kouyou’s blindfolded face cut apart and ruined beyond recognition.

 

By the time they reached Shiroyama, a pile of half-smoked cigarette butts had grown around his feet where he stood leaning against the back of his car. There was a contemplative look to him as they approached, one that quickly disappeared when he turned to see them come; he met Kouyou’s gaze for the briefest of moments, before looking away, and threw his last cig to the ground with the others. If he was sick of waiting for them, which by all rights he damn well should be, he made no show of it.

“Yuu,” Kouyou called out, meeting his eyes again. “Where is he?”

Shiroyama straightened himself up, gesturing to the trunk; Takanori tried to ignore the strange, sick feeling in his gut as he realized the answer. “If you want to see him—”

Kouyou shook his head. “No. We should just leave. Now.”

“Right.”

There was a moment of quiet, Kouyou’s gaze trained on the ground and Akira’s hand on his shoulder, but there was some sort of mutual understanding between the three of them as Shiroyama finally crushed the ashes on the ground under his boot and got into his car, and Akira patted Kouyou’s back gently; “Come on,” he said, “you’re coming with me.”

That left Takanori the only one who seemingly had no idea what the fuck was going to happen.

With nothing but the dead winter air as Akira tugged Kouyou’s form away from him, Takanori stood there watching while they turned to head towards his car—

And for some reason, something in him was panicking. “Wait, fuck,” Takanori uttered, grabbing for Kouyou’s arm, “what are we doing? Where are you going?”

“Taka, go back to Yuu.”

Takanori shook his head. “No,” he refused. “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on! Nobody’s told me anything, I’m just left here guessing as to what the fuck is going through your heads and I’m just so—” he cut himself off, lowering his voice. “I’m just confused, Kou, and I’m scared. Everything is so fucked up, and whatever is happening, you all seem to be in on it but me, and now I have no idea what to do.”

“Look, Takanori—”

“No, it’s okay,” Kouyou murmured, gently pushing Akira away. “He’s right. Just go ahead and get ready, let me talk to him.”

Akira hesitated but didn’t object, throwing them a cautious look before he got behind the wheel and closed the door, and then it was only the two of them left standing outside in the cold of the small, gravelly parking lot.

And Kouyou was shivering. “I’m sorry, Taka,” he said and smiled weakly, apologetically. “I think I’ve spent too much time inside my own head lately.”

“You’ve never let me in,” Takanori said. “Not that you’ve had much reason to, but I always get left guessing what you’re thinking about. What you’re planning.”

“I can’t stay here, Taka. You must understand that.”

“I do! I do, but I just… I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know why he’s— why Hirai just got shoved into the trunk, when I thought we had a plan, that we wanted him to die… I have no idea on where you mean to take him, or what you’re gonna do when we get there…” Takanori sighed, and Kouyou looked away. “I just don’t know what’s going through your head, Kou. Every time I think I get close, you shut me out.”

“He will die, just not yet. We’re going back.” He was chewing at his lips, rubbing his bare arms for warmth. “I need to go back. Shiroyama knows where it is.”

“Back where?”

“To the place where he had me.”

He wanted to punch himself, hearing Kouyou force himself to say it, but all he managed to respond with was a small “oh”. And maybe he should have asked why Kouyou insisted on returning _there_ , of all places, but a part of him was already pretty sure he knew the reason, and so he didn’t. “You’re freezing,” he said instead, because fuck, it was getting hard to look at Kouyou stand there and shiver in the cold of a late winter night, skin and clothes all white, bright like snow in the darkness but for the inky black hair.

Takanori shrugged his jacket off.

“Here,” he said, but Kouyou only stared at his outstretched hand, and so he sighed. “You’re gonna get sick, standing around like that. If you aren’t already,” Takanori said, stepping closer so he could throw it over Kouyou’s shoulders; it was way too small of him, of course, Takanori’s frame much too small for Kouyou’s wider, lanky frame, but it was better than nothing. The worn leather was soft and warm from his body heat, and immediately Kouyou clutched at it, pressing it closer against his freezing skin. Takanori gave a weak smile. “You should go back to Akira,” he said, gesturing to the car that stood waiting nearby, ignoring the chill of night air he could already feel begin to bite at his bones. “His car is gonna be warm.”

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Kouyou said quietly, just as he was about to turn away and go back to Shiroyama like he’d previously been ordered to. “When I was… and then I just told you to go get Yuu. I had to talk to him. I had to know what had happened.”

“Was it about the police? Were you hoping they would do something?”

A slight twinge of his brow; disappointment. “Yeah. But also because I had to know, after what I did to… about Mina.”

Takanori paused. It had been hard to forget the way Kouyou had treated the particular topic that was Kai’s wife, the fact that he’d willingly subjected her to violence, seemingly only to lure Kai over in his quest for vengeance… Takanori swallowed, hard. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot. I mean, I’m always thinking a lot, because I have so much damn _time,_ so much _hate_ in me. Especially with Hirai. All I could do was _think_ … about everything, about her. If she would even be okay… I know. I know it was wrong, what I did. What I made Kai do to her. I know I should regret it, but…”

“Why did you even tell her?” Takanori asked, his voice a note harsher than intended, and Kouyou shrunk back. Closing his eyes against the darkness. “Why did you… an innocent woman got hurt because of you, Kouyou. You made that happen, knowingly. She deserved to know the truth, you said, but that’s not all. You lie. You keep so much from me and hope I’ll just forget about it, but I don’t, and you know that I don’t!” He calmed himself, meeting Kouyou’s dark, unsteady gaze. “You’ve still not told me _why_ you did it. But you can. Just for once, Kou, don’t lie to me. Please.”

“Kai needed to die.” It was barely a whisper, and Kouyou pulled the leather jacket closer around his shoulders. “He was going to die that night. I wanted him to deserve it, to _know_ that he deserved it… the only reason he ever even touched me was to spare her…” Chewing on his lip, Kouyou lowered his head, dark hair falling across his face. “I know him too well. I counted on him to do what he did, because I didn’t want her to mourn. I thought it would be better that way.”

“What? That it would be better than _what?”_

“Her husband was going to be murdered, Takanori.” Sighing, Kouyou tilted his head back, looking up at the sky; the clouds were looking heavy. Snow would probably fall again soon. “I thought… if I killed him, she would cry over him for years, thinking he was innocent. But if she knew that he deserved it, if Kai showed her what he really was, then she wouldn’t have to mourn. This way she’d suffer once, and then move on with her life. It would be less cruel in the long run… but it was horrible. I shouldn't have told her. I shouldn’t have.”

The air in his lungs was beginning to sting. Takanori exhaled slowly, watching his breath turn white and disappear, “But you don’t regret it, do you?”

“That’s why I had to know, what they did to Kai, how Mina was doing… I had to talk to Yuu to know. Nothing worked out like I wanted it to, but Kai did confess. Told them what he did to me, told them about his relationship with Hirai, about hurting Mina. She’s… Yuu thinks she’ll be fine, but she…”

He didn’t want to hear it. “It’s really cold out here,” Takanori said instead, “and I think Shiroyama’s getting impatient.”

Kouyou looked away. “Yeah, you’re right.”

The frozen gravel crunched under his shoes as he walked back to Shiroyama’s car, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond the sound of his own footsteps; pausing, he turned to look at Kouyou again, only to see he hadn’t moved, still standing there with his head downturned and shivering in the too-small leather jacket. He frowned, turned back and ignored Shiroyama’s annoyed gaze from inside the car. 

“Kouyou, come on.”

“I wanted to hate you.”

“... what?”

“Waiting… there was nothing to do but think, about myself, about everything… and you. I wanted to hate you, Takanori. For what you did to me. You used me, you lied and ruined everything for me, and… you…” 

Kouyou looked up then, and something about his expression made Takanori freeze in place. “You made me _trust_ again, Taka, you pulled me out of the hole I was in, but then _this_ happened and we’re here and Hirai turned me back into his fucktoy and told me to wait for you to show up, and I should hate you because everything feels like it’s _your fault_ but I _can’t—”_ there was what sounded frighteningly much like a sob, but Kouyou’s eyes were so _empty._ “The only thing I am sure of, Takanori, is that you broke my heart,” he said softly. “I just… I needed you to know that.”

The only thing Takanori could do was nod.

 _I hope you do hate me,_ he thought bitterly as he watched Kouyou limp his way back to Akira and get into the car. _It’s what I deserve._


End file.
